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SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


By 

CLIVE ARDEN ■ 

~yiuM i c£-ur^ 


m 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 

Gw 


Copyright, 1923 

By The Bobbs-Merrill Company 



Printed in the United States of America 


GIFT 

PUBLISHER 

ft? -i 13*8 



C 


t <• l - 

O 


SEP 26 1923 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


“From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began; 

When Nature underneath a heap 
Of jarring atoms lay, 

And could not heave her head, 

The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
Arise, ye more than dead. 

Then cold and hot and moist and dry 
In order to their stations leap, 

And Music’s power obey. 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony 
This universal frame began: 

From harmony to ^harmony 
Through all the compass o3f the notes it ran, 
The diapason closing full in Man.” 

Dryden. 


Y. 





SINNERS IN HEAVEN 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


PART ONE 

LITTLE NOTES 

I 

Darbury was a small parish possessing an old 
church, a combined post-office and sweet-shop, but 
no actual village street. Hillbeak, resembling a garden 
city, two miles away, supplied all other requisites, from 
sausages to imitation-silk stockings. Darbury straggled 
about among its Surrey pinewoods, over heather-covered 
commons, beside its large lake, with an occasional modern 
motor-bus thundering along the main road to remind it 
of other, more turbulent, centers of life outside its sphere. 

As often happens with isolated people and places, the 
little parish was very self-important. Like modern 
womanhood, it was in a state of transition. Much of the 
old stuffiness had worn away, but also much of the old 
kindliness. The war and motor traffic had tended to 
modernize the community; and the new freedom 
rather went to its head. It was as yet not quite sure 
of its line, though painfully anxious to appear assured 
—one half shocked at the other half’s doings, and 
altogether rather mixed. 

This had been apparent, a year ago, when divorce had 


2 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


raised its ominous head for the first time within the 
memory of living inhabitants. Divorces took place 
elsewhere of course, and Darburyites read and discussed 
the newspaper accounts with avidity; but that such 
things should happen within their own fold, between 
people known and even liked by everybody else, was an 
unheard-of idea. The topic, thrilling in the Press, ap¬ 
peared indecent in these circumstances. Although it 
was Major Randall who had obtained the decree; and 
although his wife, instead of offering a defense, had 
brazenly gone off with another man; yet most people 
shrank from his society. As Mrs. Stockley, the widow 
of the late vicar, sagely remarked: “There are often 
two sides to these things; you never know.” When a 
rich family named French appeared from obscurity 
(“trade,” it was rumored: “either nails or carbure¬ 
tors”), and Major Randall turned his lonely footsteps 
toward their mansion pretty often and claimed a for¬ 
mer friendship with the daughter—Well! Darbury 
agreed that “You never do know.” . . . 

Even the Squire and Mrs. Rochdale, kindliest of the 
“old order,” began to show a slight coldness. They 
placed the hospitable doors of Darbury House ajar, so to 
speak, instead of wide open, hinting to their only son that 
a little less golf with the major might be wise. But Hugh 
laughed at the hint, in his easy-going way. “That’s all 
his funeral, not mine”; thus he waived responsibility 
for the morals of the house of Randall. “His handicap 
is plus 2—only plus man we’ve got in the club. . . .” 
These things being what really mattered, condoned cart¬ 
loads of sin in his eyes. 

A wholesome young Briton, Hugh would abominate 
shady actions, if brought actually into contact with them; 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3 


but he lacked the imagination to visualize what failed 
to interest him. Questions of morality, complexities of 
the heart, were quite beyond his ken. His own purpose 
was single, his own heart fixed. Barbara Stockley, 
only child of the late vicar, had filled it entirely, since 
the days of frocks and perambulators. Growing up to¬ 
gether, inseparable, their engagement was a foregone 
conclusion. Nobody therefore had been surprised at 
its public announcement upon Hugh’s return from 
the war. 

The wedding had been fixed for the following Decem¬ 
ber. Darbury turned with a feeling of wholesome ro¬ 
mance from the Randall thrills to those of frocks and 
local festivities. The happy pair were to live in one of 
the pretty modern houses at Hillbeak during the old 
squire’s lifetime, continuing all their activities in Dar¬ 
bury as usual. Everybody would call upon them; and 
everything would be very nice, respectable and conven¬ 
tional. Marriage would doubtless cause Barbara to shed 
that air of reserve, or aloof abstraction, which baffled 
many people. 

“A little difficult to understand,” was the usual verdict. 
“Not much in her, probably,” they added; for what Dar¬ 
bury did not understand could not be worth understand¬ 
ing. 

But while everybody purred contentedly over this 
satisfactory romance, a bomb-shell exploded in their 
midst, launched by the heroine herself. Instead of spend¬ 
ing the next four months amid dainty needlework, her 
mind oblivious to all save the prospective bridegroom 
and the dressmaker, she shattered all traditions by an¬ 
nouncing her intention to accompany an aunt, Mrs. 
Stockley’s half-sister, to Australia. Darbury gasped. 


4 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


But it gasped yet more upon discovering that the journey 
was to be made, in ultra-modern style, by aeroplane. 
An ordinary ship would have seemed at least respectable. 
As it was, she not only intended leaving her future hus¬ 
band on the brink of matrimony, but a strange man 
would be in charge of the desperate adventure. . . . 

The ostensible reason given was merely a visit to the 
aunt’s colonial relatives. But of course everybody knew 
better than to believe that; a deeper motive was needed 
to inspire such a risky wild-goose chase. Could there 
be private trouble between the engaged couple? Miss 
Brown diffidently put forth this theory. Miss Brown 
wrote poetry, therefore always searched for “soul” in 
everything, especially in romance. But the girl herself 
went about as usual, only a suppressed excitement deep¬ 
ening the already deep blue of her eyes, bubbling out 
occasionally into scraps of confidential speech which yet 
were no confidences at all. 

“Such an adventure!” she exclaimed, when Miss 
Brown sought to probe to the soul of this problem. “The 
only one I have ever had. There will never be such 
another chance.” 

This from one who should have been deep in the 
adventure of marriage! The poet was rather shocked. 
Hugh, she learned, had been averse to the idea at first. 
Quite right and proper! He had also steadfastly refused 
to go too; and Darbury had agreed with the decision. That 
a man should give up the routine of autumn pursuits was 
unheard of. . . . Besides, he managed his father’s exten¬ 
sive property, and the harvest would soon be in full swing. 
Darbury, like Hugh, was essentially practical. 

Great difficulty, it transpired over the tea-cups, 
had been experienced in overcoming Mrs. Stockley’s 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


5 


objections. But as she, like many weak women, usually 
took refuge in tears when thwarted, little direct informa¬ 
tion was obtained. 

However, Darbury persevered in its ferreting tactics, 
at last gaining a little more light. Mrs. Field paid one 
of her brief visits to, her pretty house tucked away on the 
common; and it became known that she had arranged 
everything. Everybody said' *‘Oh-h!” in a drawn-out 
syllable which expressed volumes; for Mrs. Field was 
accustomed to doing extraordinary things, without bow¬ 
ing to convention. The aviator proved to be her cousin, a 
man well known in aviation and in the engineering circles 
of many lands. Now everybody became consumed with 
a new curiosity. They opened neglected newspapers, 
hastily scanning the glowing accounts of his exploits. 
After having swooped down upon England from Austra¬ 
lia in a super-machine of his own design—brilliantly 
achieving the long test trip with two passengers in addi¬ 
tion to his crew—an influential firm had cabled agree¬ 
ment of purchase, pending an immediate, equally success¬ 
ful, return journey. So much they gleaned. But why 
or how Mrs. Field had maneuvered for Barbara Stockley 
and her aunt, Miss Dolly Davies, to be his passengers on 
the return journey, Darbury was left to conjecture, Mrs. 
Field being a woman who kept her own counsel. 

A rumor soon arose that the aviator might be expected 
at the “House on the Moor” for the week-end. This, 
clashing with a country fete at which most of the Dar- 
buryites were assisting, raised them to a state of unusual 
excitement. At any time a party in the country, with its 
opportunity for exchanging news and rumors of news, 
must never be missed; but this one held additional attrac¬ 
tions : He might be there. . . . 


6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


The vicar and his sister were obliged to push their 
bicycles most of the way, the track being narrow and 
sandy across the common; but they never moved without 
these aids to progress. They were very much alike: both 
tall and thin, both wearing pince-nez with strong lenses, 
and both exuding zeal from every pore. You knew the 
profession of the Reverend John Horne the moment he 
opened his thin lips, without reference to his very round 
white collar or black square-toed boots. His energy 
was boundless; but, as with his tennis, seemed to result 
oftener in hitting his ball into the net than over it. 

If people differed from his views they did so through 
their own ignorance, which was thereby exposed. But 
he pitied them and prayed for them; thus proving satis¬ 
factorily—to himself—his broad-mindedness. Incident¬ 
ally, the congregation at the local Wesleyan Chapel in¬ 
creased. 

To understand Darbury, as with India, one must un¬ 
derstand Caste. There is first The County: uttered with 
awed relish. This comprises the aristocracy within reach, 
extending to certain old families of landowners, the 
country squires of generations. 

Next, clinging with slippery fingers, come the Hangers- 
on of the County. Distant relatives, the Services, and 
certain clergymen, have, perhaps, the surest grip. 

After this are found those who fraternize with the 
strap-hangers, sunning themselves in reflected glory, 
while taking private care to educate themselves up to 
such heights. It means calling the substantial midday 
meal “luncheon,” the evening chop “dinner,” the modest 
kitchen “the servants' hall”; with much study of books 
on etiquette. 

Now and then a small wind blows across these rustic 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


7 


retreats, encouraging sparks of intellectual life, or fan¬ 
ning them into a blaze. 

This had taken place in Darbury upon the advent of 
the Hornes. They brought an atmosphere of culture with 
them, being much addicted to quotations. Darbury 
bestirred itself to an appearance of equal culture, and also 
began to quote. Every topic mentioned was privately 
read up, in order to keep pace with Miss Horne’s intellect. 

On the Friday afternoon before the fete she walked 
rapidly across the common, more purpose even than usual 
noticeable in her manner. In addition to a fund of 
knowledge concerning aviation, she had a terrific piece 
of news with which to electrify everybody. Only once 
did she trouble to address her brother; but the remark, 
apparently trivial, gave the key to the workings of her 
mind. 

“I hope Mary Davies is there.” . . . 

Miss Mary Davies was Mrs. Stockley’s elder sister, 
now entrenched in Darbury upon one of her periodical 
lengthy visits. Having no encumbrances such as husband, 
children, dogs or cats, she spent her days swallow-fash¬ 
ion, migrating with the seasons to select “Pensions” at 
pleasant health resorts. Her work, to which she 
often vaguely alluded, consisted of some cold, but emi¬ 
nently systematic, organization concerning what she 
termed “fallen girls.” Upon this topic she was instinc¬ 
tively approached as an authority. Not that she had 
ever fallen, or even been requested to fall. All the same, 
she viewed man with disfavor mixed with suspicion. 
Otherwise bosom friends, she and Miss Horne were in¬ 
tellectual rivals. To be first with any knowledge, there¬ 
fore, was a ceaseless ambition, keeping both strung up 
to high endeavor. 


8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Mr. Horne made no reply to this observation. He 
walked along lost in gloomy thought, with what Barbara 
called the “pained priest look.” Only when the “House on 
the Moor,” set amid a wilderness of gorse, heather and 
pinewoods, was reached did he break into speech. 

“We must not expect Mrs. Field to look upon it as 
we do. Her views are—well—strange. Of course,” he 
added charitably, “she means well. Such a charming 
woman; but —*—” Closing his lips ominously, he heaved 
a profound sigh, as he opened the gate. 

II 

Mrs. Stockley belonged to the order of women who 
resemble silkworms, in being wrapped entirely round by 
the cocoon of their own atmospheres. Hers consisted of 
Family and the Church; that being the correct order of 
precedence, should one be necessary. Widow of a late 
vicar and daughter of a late archdeacon, who was the 
son of a late bishop, she seemed indeed the visible em¬ 
bodiment of the Church and the lay world. 

She had arrived with her sisters at the “House on the 
Moor” very hot, her small, ferrety face more peevish- 
looking than usual. Mrs. Field, a little flushed from a 
hard set of tennis, hurried up to the veranda to greet 
them, the sunlight glinting upon the dark waves of her 
hair and merging into the general radiance which en¬ 
livened her pleasant face and graceful figure. But 
Mrs. Stockley was too absorbed in grievances, as a mole 
in its burrowing, ever to notice the sunshine. 

“We intended to drive,” she complained, “but Barbara 
disappeared without ordering the pony. Really, she has 
become more thoughtless every day since you put this 
wild Australian idea into her head.” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


9 


Mrs. Field produced chairs and cushions, wisely for¬ 
bearing to suggest that, being adequately provided with 
tongues, one of the three might have given the order. 

Mrs. Stockley sank into a chair and produced the 
Church embroidery without which she seldom moved. 

“Things do fit in badly sometimes; don’t they ?” Mrs. 
Field remarked tactfully. 

“They do!” sighed Mrs. Stockley. “But it is always 
because people consider nobody but themselves. If Bar¬ 
bara would think of me instead of—where is she, by 
the way?” 

“Playing tennis.” 

“And showing a lot of leg!” broke in Miss Mary 
Davies. “You must speak to her about it, Alice.” 

Mrs. Stockley heaved a deep sigh. “It would be use¬ 
less. Present-day children are like present-day servants, 
most disappointing.” 

Miss Davies stood for a moment watching the distant 
players through her unnecessary lorgnette. 

“Modern tennis is extremely unbecoming,” she ob¬ 
served at last, sitting down by Mrs. Stockley; but this 
lady was casting covert glances at her younger sister, 
engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Field. 

“Dolly!” she called. “Dolly! I hope you are consider¬ 
ing my advice and giving up this ridiculous expedition ?” 

Miss Dolly Davies taught music in a girls’ school in 
London. Although she had inevitably acquired many 
characteristics of those who live chiefly among their own 
sex, she possessed a zest for adventure lacking in her 
sisters. 

“No,” she declared decisively, her plump face beam¬ 
ing; “we are discussing luggage. I shall take my old 
tin box with provisions, and a spirit lamp.” 


10 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“What on earth for?” inquired Miss Davies, contemp¬ 
tuously. 

“In case of accidents, of course.” 

The word aroused Mrs. Stockley’s uneasiness again. 
“I wish, if you must go, you would go alone.” 

“With a strange man? Oh, Alice! Surely you and 
Mary would not countenance that ?” 

A little explosion of laughter came from Mrs. Field. 
“Alan alone with a woman would be priceless!” she 
exclaimed. “My cousin,” she went on, in answer to 
three pairs of puzzled eyes, “was left an orphan. A 
bachelor uncle, who spent most of his life in travel, 
brought him up. Alan is more used to barbarians than 
to women.” She broke off to greet a fresh arrival. 

“He doesn’t sound very safe,” said Miss Davies. 

“Still, he is Mrs. Field’s cousin, therefore of quite 
good family,” Mrs. Stockley replied hastily, as if to 
reassure herself. “And he has won quite a number of 
decorations in the war. So I hope everything will be all 
right.” 

“There is- always a certain amount of risk with strange 
men away from their homes,” Miss Davies observed, 
darkly. “Here is Mrs. Brent-Hewson! Really, she 
seems bigger and fatter each time I see her. And how 
obviously new her teeth are!” 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson certainly was massive: a severe¬ 
faced woman whom nobody could accuse of a sense of 
humor. Life to her was a heavy affair. She might be 
described as embodying the agricultural side of Darbury’s 
social system; for she bred pigs; having no children to 
rear. This she called, in her pedantic way, “national 
service”; and it was, incidentally, a profitable hobby. 
Another national service consisted in frequent disappear- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ii 


ances upon lecturing tours. She possessed a husband— 
her second, be it noted, but he was quite an after¬ 
thought : a mild, bald, little man with indifferent health. 
Before marriage he was known as Jimmy Hewson; the 
“Brent-” was added afterward. Nobody knew why they 
married, the bridegroom perhaps least of all. He sat, 
sometimes, by his solitary fire, and pondered over the life 
and death of his predecessor. It seemed to him that they 
might have been good friends. 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson shook hands unsmilingly with 
Mrs. Field. 

“What about your cow?” she demanded, with the cold 
dispassionate glare which quelled any thought of frivol¬ 
ity. “Has she come in yet?” 

“No,” replied Mrs. Field, who fortunately understood 
colloquial agricultural terms. 

“H’m. That’s strange. You must have counted 
wrong. Thought she was due to calve last week?” 

“She was,” admitted her owner, rather guiltily; “at 
least, we thought so.” 

“ 'Thought so ?’ It’s no good keeping animals if you 
don’t understand them. I had better look at her myself 
after tea.” 

Mrs. Stockley privately considered this product of the 
“new order” slightly vulgar. But as Mrs. Brent-Hew¬ 
son was related to a County Family such trials had to 
be endured. 

Miss Davies and the breeder of pigs, though both 
looked upon as women of the world, were not much 
enamored of each other. Their greeting was coldly 
polite. Neither cared much for their hostess, whom 
neither could understand, and conversation languished. 

One who said little but was always pleasant, never 


12 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


thrusting forward her own individuality, was beyond the 
comprehension of Darburyites. And Mrs. Field knew 
that here, in her own particular corner, lay a gulf that 
could never be bridged. Her son was in the Army; and a 
flat in town, with an ever-widening sphere of philan¬ 
thropic activities, kept her much away; but now and then 
she made a meteoric flight across the dazed vision of 
Darbury society. 

For a few moments she stood watching the tennis, 
shading her eyes with her hand. A poetic admirer once 
remarked that if you looked into their fathomless gray 
depth in repose you heard the soft falling of all the tears 
in the world. She shrieked with laughter upon this being 
repeated to her; nevertheless it contained a certain truth; 
for she possessed that rare gift of magnetic sympathy 
as impossible to locate as the center of a rainbow. The 
sudden click of the garden gate broke the momentary 
silence which had fallen after Mrs. Brent-Hewson’s 
heavy arrival. 

The vicar and his sister were seen waving vigorously, 
in the Christian-like cheerfulness of spirit upon which 
they prided themselves. They had scarcely greeted their 
hostess before Miss Horne’s stored-up patience gave out. 

“Have you heard?” she asked, in the clear metallic 
voice peculiar to a certain type of woman called well-bred. 

“Heard what?” Miss Davies cried, her ears springing 
to attention. 

“Major Randall is going to marry Miss French!” 

The blaze of virtuous indignation in Miss Horne’s face 
was reflected in that of her friend and rival. Miss Davies 
gave an inarticulate smack of the lips as if incapable of 
speech. Her whole body bristled. 

“Going through the form of marriage, you mean!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


13 


struck in the vicar, with much bitterness; while Mrs. 
Stockley clasped her altar-cloth, as if clinging to an 
anchor in a wicked sea. 

Miss Davies’ breath returned. “It’s scandalous!” 

“Should think it’s a case for the King’s Proctor,” Mrs. 
Brent-Hewson remarked scornfully in her brief decided 
manner. 

“I always thought there was something behind his 
attentions to—those people,” Miss Davies observed mys¬ 
teriously. 

“Oh,” broke in Mrs. Field, “he knew them long ago. 
They were always warm friends, even before his mar¬ 
riage.” 

“This modern friendship between men and women 
never answers,” Mrs. Stockley commented plaintively. 

“No?” inquired her hostess politely. 

“It’s modern fiddlesticks!” Miss Davies broke in, 
hotly. “Sooner or later physical attraction comes in; 
and then there is trouble.” 

“Don’t you think it is always there?” suggested Mrs. 
Field. “Isn’t it that which gives the piquancy to such 
friendships, whatever basis they are founded upon?” 

Miss Davies surveyed her through raised lorgnette. 

“If that is so,” she replied, entirely misunderstanding 
her meaning, “it reflects most discreditably upon modern 
society! But I fear you are right. No man or woman 
thrown perpetually together could escape the sexual at¬ 
traction. Therefore I maintain that such intimacies 
under the guise of friendship are dangerous. Don’t you 
agree with me, Mr. Horne?” 

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, nodding repeatedly, as if in 
deep thought. “ ‘ ’Tis true, ’tis pity, and pity ’tis ’tis 
true.’ ” 


14 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


He paused to allow this quotation to sink in, his eyes 
watching Mrs. Field. 

“Randall actually asked me to perform this mockery 
of marriage. In the church !” 

“You refused, of course ?” Mrs. Stockley exclaimed. 

“Of course/’ He laughed at the question. 

“I wonder,” broke in a low voice, “what has become 
of Mrs. Randall?” 

“Barbara!” ejaculated Mrs. Stockley. “What do 
these things matter to you?” 

The others turned in some surprise, glancing with 
curiosity at the girl who had lately acquired prominence 
in their minds. 

She stood on the veranda, in her white tennis frock, 
the band of something soft and blue around her dark 
hair half hidden among the luxuriant waves. Her small 
piquant face, with its little straight nose and wild-rose 
coloring, seemed extremely young and undeveloped; but 
the tenderly curved mouth, the sensitive lips, the steady, 
pensive depths of the shadowy eyes, spoke of vibrant 
possibilities. Not everybody was allowed to see into 
those eyes. 

“I liked her,” she replied to her mother’s question. But 
this was no reason in Mrs. Stockley’s eyes. 

“A very bad woman, my dear, whom you must forget. 
I regret ever allowing you to associate with her,” she 
said, with the decision she could sometimes assume. 

With tennis-racquet clasped in her arms, the girl stood 
for a moment, slim and straight, looking down upon all 
these people who represented her world, within the 
horizon of whose views her life had been spent. Then 
she glanced across at the friend whose brief visits had 
always been red-letter days in the calendar of her mind. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


15 


“I wonder?” she said musingly. “Problems of that 
sort, involving such tremendous decisions, must be 
terrible!” 

She gave a little shiver as if a chill had fallen upon her; 
then, stepping quickly down into the sunshine, she 
perched upon the arm of Mrs. Field’s chair. 

“No problems!” ejaculated her mother. “Her duty 
was quite plain. It always is.” 

“Still, of course,” said the vicar, eying the girl kindly, 
“one must try to think mercifully of such people.” He 
always spoke of “one,” both in sermons and out of them. 

“Sin is sin,” Mrs. Stockley replied, with her usual lack 
of originality. “It is most reprehensible. Especially 
among people we know,” she added. 

Mrs. Field opened her lips to speak, then wisely closed 
them again; and her glance wandered away to the three 
hills rising, heather-covered, like miniature mountains, 
upon the horizon. But a vague suspicion that the line 
of demarcation between right and wrong might not after 
all be quite so easily decipherable, caused Barbara, a 
creature of adorable impulse, to seize her friend’s hand, 
under cover of the others’ talk. 

“If I had a terrific problem to decide, I should come 
to you!” she exclaimed. “You never condemn.” 

“I don’t see how you can without feeling the actual 
motives which make the problem. That’s what counts. 
Isn’t it? What makes wrong in one person right in 
another? Besides,” she added with a little laugh, “it is 
largely a matter of luck that we are not in the same boat.” 

“What do you mean?” ejaculated Miss Horne, over¬ 
hearing this last sentence. 

Mrs. Field looked her fully, but kindly, in the face. 

“Are we not lucky if we are not exposed to these temp- 


i6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


tations? Given such problems to decide? If we were, 
how do we know what might be the result ?” 

“Really!” exclaimed Miss Horne. “They are only 
“problems' to weak natures. We should all know what 
to do, I hope!” She turned away, not wishing to become 
involved in such foolish talk; and Mrs. Field glanced at 
Barbara. 

“Don’t look so solemn, Bab; or I shall think you have 
one! Perfectly insurmountable!” 

“My only problem is my honeymoon; but—it really 
is one,” the girl replied, her brow a little puckered. 

Mrs. Field looked at her again, rather quickly. 

“Hugh wants to go to some remote spot, just a replica 
of Darbury, where we shall be buried alive! He suggests 
his father’s estate in Devonshire. There are golf and 
hunting, and he could attend to things with the agent 
at the same time.” 

“Well?” 

“Well! Isn’t it so horribly— sensible? For a honey¬ 
moon !” The other made no response for a moment; 
but the pressure of her fingers told the girl that here, as 
usual, everything was understood. 

“It is so—exactly Hugh, dear old boy,” she said at 
last. “You wouldn’t care for him to change, Bab?” 

“Oh, no, of course not!” But the little pucker was 
still there. 

Suddenly she sat upright and changed the subject. 
“Where is your cousin? I want to meet him. I want 
to hear all about our expedition.” 

“He should be here any moment. Ah! Here is 
Tony. Tony, where is Alan?” 

Tony Field had just come from London. In Dar¬ 
bury he was regarded as the perfect pattern of a subal- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


17 


tern, from his well-oiled hair to his beautifully polished 
boots. His engagement to Sybil Burford, the local doc¬ 
tor’s very young and very smart daughter, had provided 
another of the thrills of this eventful year. 

“Alan can’t come until to-morrow,” he replied; and a 
wave of disappointment passed over the party. 

“He must be most interesting!” Miss Horn exclaimed. 
“I understand he has traveled extensively, too? In what 
country, chiefly?” 

“Over most of the globe,” replied Mrs. Field, seating 
herself at the tea-table. “His uncle was a naturalist. 
They spent years together in the South Sea Islands and 
India. At one time Alan was engineering in Africa. 
Lately he has been developing aviation in Australia, as 
you probably know.” 

“Do you think he would give a lecture at the Insti¬ 
tute?” 

Barbara was wondering why Mrs. Field smiled into the 
tea-cups, when the vicar struck in: 

“His machine is a wonderful invention, isn’t it? Some 
patent to do with alighting, I think?” 

“Yes. It is the realization of very keen ambitions.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Horne, “Captain Croft 
would write an article for next month’s number of the 
Lucky Bag about his invention, or his travels ?” 

“Ask him to-morrow,” suggested Mrs. Field. “Tony, 
don’t you think Dolly Davies and Alan would get on 
famously together if they went alone?” 

Barbara looked up in alarm. “But . . .” Seeing the 
smile and humor lurking in the other’s eyes, she sub¬ 
sided into curiosity. Tony gave a shout of laughter. 

“What a holy time you’d have, Miss Dolly!” 

“Why would she?” demanded Barbara. 


i8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“She’d be mending his clothes and cleaning his boots 
in a few weeks! Probably cooking his food, if he liked 
the idea!’” 

Miss Dolly laughed at this extravagance. But Bar¬ 
bara’s already keen curiosity got the better of her. 

“Why?” she asked again. 

“He’s such a determined, cocksure fellow—expect? 
everybody to cave in to him. When he gets an idea in 
his head he stops at nothing until he is top-dog of it. 
And he has the rummiest ideas!” 

“He doesn’t sound very attractive,” observed the . girl, 
glancing at Mrs. Field in some wonder. 

“He is, perhaps, rather full of his own ambitions and 
may seem a little—hard,” she replied. “But that is 
because there have been no softening influences in his 
life. Tony doesn’t altogether understand him.” 

“Who does?” laughed Tony. “A dark horse, Bab! 
You may as well both decide to give in to him at the be¬ 
ginning, for you will eventually! He can let off steam 
better than any man I know.” 

“He did famous things in the war,” Mr. Horne inter¬ 
posed, as if to rebuke this lightness in one too young 
to appreciate greatness. “ 'One who never turned his 
back, but marched breast forward.’ I shall be proud to 
shake his hand.” 

“Have you noticed,” put in Miss Brown, who wrote 
sweet verses for the Lucky Bag, “how, against the clouds, 
an aeroplane looks like a flying cross? I think it seems 
so symbolic. These brave, brave men! I wonder if in a 
crash, they have sufficient time just to—to—remember 
their souls-” 

“Alan would have time to swear, anywhere!” Tony 
interrupted, with a glance at Barbara. But the garden 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


19 


gate had clicked once more; and she turned from the 
horrified face of the poet to wave her hand to the figure 
coming round the bushes. 

“Here is Hugh,” she said, a note of satisfaction in her 
voice. 

Hugh waved back, walking in his usual leisurely man¬ 
ner down the garden path with Shag, his Airedale terrior, 
close at heel. Of medium height and fresh complexion, 
he ever seemed surrounded by an air of utter contentment, 
of unemotional appreciation of life’s gifts; in spite of the 
shade which, since the war, had replaced one of his smil¬ 
ing brown eyes. Hugh was never in a hurry, nor in any 
way ruffled. He had taken the war and all its loath¬ 
some experiences in the same calm, good-natured, simple 
fashion that he accepted the every-day country life which 
to him was entirely sufficient. 

“I couldn’t come earlier,” he explained, greeting every¬ 
body in the thoughtfully pleasant manner which made 
old ladies adore him. “We have been getting in the 
late hay, and were short-handed. A wagoner is away 
ill.” 

“Ah, yes!” exclaimed the vicar, handing round cakes 
in the practised way of sociable clergymen. “I saw him 
this morning. He started to attend chapel instead of 
church, a few weeks ago; so I took the opportunity of 
asking him why it was. He told me he was a ‘low man’ 
and intended to remain so!” 

Hugh laughed in his easy way, lowering himself with 
carefully balanced tea-cup to the grass by Barbara’s 
chair. But Mr. Horne’s face bore no trace of amusement. 

“This ‘High Church’ and ‘Low Church’ business— 
what a trial it is!” he sighed. 

Mrs. Field, unaware that she shared with the wagoner 


20 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


a prominent place in the list of wanderers needing prayer, 
looked at him with quick sympathy. As he saw the 
light, through his strong pince-nez, so, she realized, did 
he struggle toward it. And of all the many “pathways 
leading to the stars,” who can judge which is the best? 
She registered an inward vow to take her cousin to his 
church on Sunday. 

Barbara, on the other hand, glanced at him with 
scarcely veiled irritation as he continued: “However, I 
like the old fellow’s honesty. After all, one can usually 
learn something from everybody.” 

“Yes,” she murmured to Hugh; “but often it is only 
patience.” 

Ill 

Hugh and Barbara walked home together in the 
evening. The sun was setting in a sea of flame as 
they crossed the common; the white sandy paths wound 
among the heather up to the horizon and were lost in an 
eternity of red-gold splendor. The tall pines of the 
woods near Darbury House loomed dark, mysterious, 
silently splendid, like huge somber pillars of some cathe¬ 
dral entered at night. Barbara, sensitive and imagina¬ 
tive to the point of nervousness, slipped a hand through 
her companion’s arm as they entered the gloom. Once 
more the much discussed subject of their honeymoon 
absorbed their minds. 

“I really don’t care about the idea of some desert 
place packed away from the world,” the girl owned. 
“A honeymoon ought to be spent somewhere—where it 
is—oh, wonderful! Where we can reach the real heart 
of—of things together, Hughie.” 

“Where it’s warm is more to the point, for December,” 
he broke in prosaically. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


21 


With a quick intake of the breath, she half withdrew 
her arm; but he pressed it to his side. 

“Where do you suggest, Bab, old thing? I really 
don’t mind. After all,” he said, with one of the clumsy 
attempts at expression which were dear to the girl, “to be 
together is the main point; isn’t it ?” 

The wistfulness vanished from her lips in the sudden 
radiant smile which transformed her whole face. 

“Yes. But we need not be actually buried together— 
on our honeymoon! That can come later. When I 
return from Australia, I shall probably have more brain¬ 
waves about it all.” 

“I hope,” he replied, “you will be so sick of travel, 
that you will be content to—to-” 

“Do precisely what we do here, now? Oh, Hughie!” 
She gave his arm an impatient shake. Then words 
tactfully spoken that afternoon recurred to her mind. 
Impulsively she squeezed the arm she had shaken. “Oh, 
but you’re just adorably yourself, you dear old thing!” 

Hugh laughed. “That’s pretty obvious! Give me a 
kiss”—he bent his head toward her—“and be your ador¬ 
able self, too. You have seemed different, lately, Bab.” 

“Oh, rubbish!” she exclaimed quickly, ruffling his 
hair with her fingers. But the words sent a stab of com¬ 
punction through her; for she knew their truth. 

Slowly, subtly, the spirit of change, which like a 
great wind was moving over the face of the world—up¬ 
rooting age-old trees, scattering the dust, and the stored- 
up gold of centuries—had found its way into her heart 
and left her restless, puzzled. 

A silence fell upon them as they left the woods and 
strolled down the main road to Darbury Lake. Here, in 
an angle formed by a side lane, Lake Cottage screened 



22 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


its jumble of chimneys by sheltering pines; the little 
house, built up from two laborers’ cottages, which since 
her father’s death, ten years ago, had been the girl’s home. 

Shag, searching the reeds for possible rats, disturbed 
several waterfowl; fluttering, screaming, they sped across 
the placid surface which reflected rosily the afterglow 
of the setting sun. Otherwise, save for the intermittent 
croaking of frogs, all was deathly still. 

In after years Hugh always vividly remembered that 
evening walk together and the quiet time beside the lake, 
with the two apparently trivial interruptions. 

The silence was presently broken by the noisy foot¬ 
steps of a village girl who hurried down the side lane and 
vanished into the main road. 

'That was Jenny Grant,” Barbara murmured. ‘‘She 
was crying. I wonder what is the matter ?” 

“Was she? Don’t know, I’m sure.” Hugh was more 
intent upon a movement among the reeds close by. Sud¬ 
denly he started forward. “Look out! There’s a rat!” 

Deaf and blind to all save sport, he called to Shag and 
dashed among the gorse-bushes in pursuit. But the 
rat, doubling, darted swiftly back by Barbara’s feet. With 
an involuntary scream, she ran into the lane, nar¬ 
rowly escaping collision with a motor-car traveling 
swiftly toward the main road. She was aware of the 
dark shape looming almost upon her; the sudden harsh 
sound of brakes instantly applied; then a voice of 
outraged fury: 

“Why the hell don’t you look where you are going?” 

Speechless, she staggered back against the bank. Then 
trembling with the shock, she saw through the dusk a 
man’s tall figure swinging itself out of the driver’s seat 
and towering over her. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


23 


“Are you hurt?” he inquired, in the same impatient 
curt tones. 

Now in Darbury, if a man so far forgot himself as to 
show real feeling—much less swear—before ladies, he 
was covered with confusion, full of apology. Indignant, 
Barbara drew herself up and flashed him a glance of 
furious hostility. But the look she met in return was so 
piercingly direct, so impersonally cold, that she speed¬ 
ily lowered her eyes again. 

“No; thank you!” she replied, icily. 

For a moment he hesitated, glancing round at the 
gorse-bushes from which she had appeared. 

“Why did you dash out like that ?” 

She made no reply. 

“Something frightened you,” he affirmed. “What 
was it? Traps? Poachers? Or-” 

“Merely a rat.” To cover a sudden feeling of foolish¬ 
ness, she threw all the dignity she could muster into the 
words. 

“A rat!” The scorn in the laugh with which he turned 
away made her cheeks burn angrily. 

“You are driving without lights!” she flung after him, 
as he swung himself back into the car. He made no reply; 
but when the car moved forward he turned toward her. 

“You’re sure it wasn’t a mouse?” he called; and she 
fancied she saw the flash of white teeth, as he shot away 
into the main road. 

The knowledge that one is being laughed at is un¬ 
pleasant in itself; but to feel the laughter deserved makes 
it much worse. Barbara, as usual, took refuge in Hugh, 
who was more interested in the slaughter which Shag had 
just effected. Quite lacking imagination, he also 
laughed. 


24 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“If you run under people’s cars, you can’t expect 
loving remarks! Look here, I’m coming down for a swim 
in the morning. Will you come too?” 

She shook her head. “Mother would be furious. She 
thinks bathing in the lake ‘dangerous, common, and ut¬ 
terly rep-re-hensible.’ ” 

“Need she know?” suggested the practical Hugh, seat¬ 
ing himself upon the bank and drawing out his cigarette 
case. 

“If she didn’t find out, Aunt Mary would!” sighed the 
girl. With a precautionary glance at the one visible win¬ 
dow of Lake Cottage, she helped herself to a cigarette, 
and slid more out of sight under the bank. “Besides,” 
she went on between puffs, “you know I can never swim 
in the lake.” 

“That’s only because you’re a duffer!” Hugh retorted 
frankly. “You can swim in the sea, which is far more 
dangerous. So why not here?” 

“Ah, but the sea buoys you up! You simply let the 
waves take you. I can do that; but here”— she gave a 
dissatisfied glance over the water at their feet—“there 
is no life in this stagnant pool! I just sink.” 

She sat lost in thought for a while, then abruptly 
turned to Hugh. 

“Only twelve days more, Hughie: then I shall be 
gone. It will really have happened!” She breathed the 
last words almost incredulously, half to herself. 

“Heartless little beast!” He sent a curl of smoke up 
into the still air. 

“Heartless? Oh, no! Hughie.” She sat upright. 
“If only I could make you understand! But you are so 
gloriously content. Before we settle down I must—I 
simply must —feel life! Just once. I can’t explain-” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


25 


“Feel?” he laughed, a little bewildered, as he often 
was when endeavoring to follow her darting flights of 
thought. She was apt to go off on little jaunts of her 
own, leaving him standing firmly on the ground search¬ 
ing for binoculars. 

“What do you mean? Don’t you always 'feel’? When 
it’s hot, or freezing-” 

“It-—it never seems to you,” she went on, stumbling 
over the search for words to express the inexpressible, 
“as if something were—missing, or—wrong in some way. 
Does it? As if our lives were petty, empty, and all of 

us rather stupid? As if-” Abruptly she stood up 

and flung her cigarette-end into the lake. “I want to 
get away—to live just for a time in the real world, not in 
a backwater! Where masses of human beings we know 
nothing of suffer, struggle—sin—really live! Perhaps 
then I shall discover ” 

“What?” Hugh laughed a little. The turmoil of life 
seemed incongruous with this girl’s delicacy of form and 
features. 

She shook her head, laughing back mirthlessly. “That’s 
what I don’t know.” 

Hugh caught her hand and pulled her down again 
beside him. “Then come out of the clouds,” he said. 

Something resembling a douche of cold water subdued 
her to silent acquiescence; her brows knit again in puz¬ 
zled wonder. Then, as she felt the warmth of Hugh’s 
fingers a rush of tenderness chased away the little chill. 
Impulsively, as ever, she stooped and laid her lips to his. 

“Not heartless, Hughie! Never that. If you were 
only coming too, all would be perfect!” 

And Hugh was content. However far the flight, his 
Barbara always eventually came back to him. 


26 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


His steadfast refusal to accompany her had caused 
Barbara, as it had everybody else, no surprise. Like many 
similar, wholesome young men with average brains, he 
possessed little enterprise beyond the interests of his 
immediate groove. The glory of a cross-country run 
with hounds, the whirl of a golf ball, the sudden rush 
of partridges’ wings, were what he understood. With 
these, and Barbara beside him, part of the routine of life, 
his days were abundantly full. And she understood the 
charm of these pursuits, shared some of them with him; 
but- 

When Barbara reached home that evening, she found 
the house in darkness. Feeling her way through the 
little hall, she descended the step leading to the 
drawing-room. There the three ladies were sitting in 
gloom, storm-clouds obviously hovering about them. 

“At last!” ejaculated her mother. “You left Mrs. 
Field’s before we did. May one ask what you have been 
doing ?” 

“I was with Hugh. What is the matter, mother ?” 

“Surely you see enough of Hugh without loitering 
about in the dark like a common village girl? You knew 
Martha would be out to-night-” 

“Oh, I quite forgot!” 

“And the lamps were not trimmed this morning.” 

“Oh! I—I forgot those, too. I am sorry, mother.” 
Not waiting for the storm to burst, she hurried to the 
empty kitchen, and began to rectify this stupendous error. 
Many weak people, Mrs. Stockley among them, usually 
gain their ends in life by reducing others to a state of 
passive acquiescence for the sake of peace. Remon¬ 
strance or self-justification were entirely wasted upon 
her. Barbara knew this. After carrying in the tall 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


27 


shaded lamps, she hurriedly set about getting the supper. 
But unfortunately, in her haste, the soup became a little 
smoked over Martha’s banked-up kitchen fire. 

After two mouthfuls, Mrs. Stockley laid down her 
spoon. “It is not fit to eat. Don’t eat it, Mary. Dolly, 
leave it. Remove the plates, Barbara.” As the girl rose 
to obey, the cold voice went on: “I am, indeed, sorry for 
Hugh! A wife who forgets every duty to her husband; 
who can not, in emergencies, prepare food fit for his con¬ 
sumption-” 

“What do you mean, mother?” Barbara was moved 
to useless remonstrance. “I have not failed in any duty 
to Hugh, yet.” 

“You know quite well what I mean. Don’t prevari- 
cate.” 

A heavy silence enveloped the rest of the meal, until 
Aunt Dolly at last broke it, with well-meaning intent. 

“A message was left for you, Bab, by the secretary of 
the Girls’ Club-” 

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Mrs, Stockley. “She was wait¬ 
ing when we arrived. I told her to come back later.” 

“What is the message?” Barbara asked listlessly. 

“Something is wrong with the accounts. You looked 
after everything while she was away. I hope you did 
not muddle them? Oh, and Mr. Horne wants you to go 
to the vicarage at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, to 
discuss new plans for the catechism classes. He forgot 
to tell you.” 

“But I have to see to my stall at the fete.” 

“There will be time for both. Have you prepared this 
week’s Sunday-school lesson yet?” 

“No.” 

“Ah! I thought not. You won’t have time for that 



28 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


to-morrow.” Mrs. Stockley rose from the table and 
mumbled a grace. “When Mrs. Field is here, you forget 
everything! You must do it to-night.” 

Barbara said nothing. This was but one of three hun¬ 
dred and sixty-five days all much alike in each year. 
She cleared away the supper; wrestled with the thick¬ 
headed secretary of the Girls' Club over accounts which, 
after an exhaustive half-hour, turned out to be correct; 
buried herself in the preparation of an orthodox Sunday- 
school lesson; then betook herself to bed. 

Opening the window wide, she leaned out, inhaling 
deep breaths of the flower-scented air. “Only twelve 
more days!” she muttered, with a catch of the breath. 
She fell on her knees beside the low casement, her loos¬ 
ened hair in glorious profusion round her. “Then— 
Life!” she said. 

IV 

A Fete seems to grow out of village life like some 
painful, incurable excrescence, with annual regularity. 
Usually there is some philanthropy to provide excuse; 
but failing all else there are always church funds—emi¬ 
nently respectable, if somewhat vague. Clergymen espec¬ 
ially thrive upon these events, and the presence of all the 
women for miles round can safely be counted upon. 

The Darbury fete, being in aid of a hospital fund, was 
held in the grounds of a neighboring mansion, the winter 
garden of which was utilized for dancing. A local brass 
band provided music; but only the villagers, servants, 
or other rustics were expected to dance. That was un¬ 
derstood. The elite of the neighborhood merely looked 
on at this as at other side-sho.ws. 

Barbara and Miss Brown were in charge of the sweets 
and tobacco-stall, an offshot of that labeled “Home 
Products.” Here were sold eggs, butter, and other recog- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


29 


nizably useful goods; and here presided Mrs. Brent- 
Hewson, her monumental form swathed in rustling black 
silk, her head crowned by a very dreadnought in millin¬ 
ery. After a morning spent in preparations for the fete, 
and an afternoon behind the stall, Barbara was feeling 
unutterably bored. # 

Then suddenly she was aware of a man’s figure stand¬ 
ing near; and knew, without looking up, that she was 
being intently scrutinized. 

“I think you are so brave to fly to Australia!” Miss 
Brown exclaimed. “And with a strange man, too! 
Doesn’t Mr. Hugh mind?” 

Barbara laughed at this typical Darbury remark. 

“No! Of course not.” 

“But suppose you don’t like him ?” 

“That won’t matter. He is only the pilot.” 

Glancing up as she spoke, she gave an involuntary 
start at finding the same direct, piercing look fastened 
upon her that she had experienced the night before. It 
was not the rude stare of a man who appraises women 
as if they were horses; rather did it seem to scatter 
non-essentials, and to probe to the spirit within. For a 
moment her own eyes seemed held by a curious com¬ 
pulsion. She felt disconcerted quick remembrance of 
the previous night’s incident, and her recent little out¬ 
burst caused a flush to overspread her sensitive face. 

At the same instant Mrs. Field came briskly round the 
corner of the tent. “Ah!” she cried. “You are here 
first, Alan.” Then, turning to Barbara, “I want to 
introduce you both,” she said, taking an arm of each. 

And Barbara, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious, too 
bewildered to do more than stammer a conventional 
greeting, was forced once more to lift her eyes to his. 


3 ° 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


They were deep-set and gray like those of his cousin, but 
lacking the tenderness which lurked in hers; the little 
lines at their corners, surely betokening humor, appeared 
out of place. In her rapid glance she was dimly aware 
of great height, broad shoulders, and a lean, deeply 
tanned, clean-shaven face. 

“Alan borrowed a car and turned up last night, after 
all.” Mrs. Field smoothed over the impending awkward¬ 
ness; but at that moment Mrs. Brent-Hewson called her 
away. 

“Yes,” remarked Barbara, with some emphasis and a 
world of meaning. 

“Yes!” he echoed in the same tone. “We have met 
before.” 

There fell a silence, which the girl racked her brains 
in vain to break. She was conscious of feeling acutely 
disappointed. This was the man who to her inexperienced 
mind had seemed a dim, unreal figure crowned by a halo 
of glorious achievement! This the heaven-sent deliverer, 
who, unknowingly, had offered that hidden self the one 
chance of stretching its cramped wings! This man, for 
whom the previous evening she had conceived such a 
strong dislike, was to be their pilot over thousands of 
miles. Even if, as she had told'Miss Brown, it did not 
matter, it was nevertheless very disappointing. 

“I’m glad it was no worse,” he remarked abruptly, 
obviously in the tone of one expected to say something, 
but unused to little conventional pleasantries. This sound¬ 
ed like a belated attempt at apology. With Hugh’s com¬ 
mon-sense remark in her mind, she met it half-way. 

“I suppose it was my own fault; but-” 

“Oh, entirely!” he broke in, as if there were no question 
about it. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i 


The rest of her sentence remained unuttered, and she 
made no further attempt at conversation. Tony Field’s 
words of the day before, evidently spoken from expe¬ 
rience, recurred to her. Dimly, yet instinctively, she 
realized the truth in them. . . . 

From a distance came the crack of rifles, where Hugh 
was in charge of the shooting-range. . . . 

Before the pause became uncomfortable, Mrs. Field 
returned and insisted upon having tea. On these oc¬ 
casions tea suggests a gathering of the clans. All the 
little cliques of the neighborhood meet in the large mar¬ 
quee and discuss the news they have gleaned. Miss 
Davies usually accumulated the lion’s share. She seemed 
to attract scandalous tit-bits as a tree attracts lichen; 
therefore she was a popular figure. 

Barbara was detained at the entrance; and Mrs. Field 
looked at her cousin with kindly enthusiasm, when they 
found a vacant table. 

“Well, Alan? Isn’t she a dear girl? And pretty?” 

He responded indifferently; stooped down to tuck hi,s 
panama hat under the seat; then sat up and ran his 
fingers through his thick dark hair. 

“Damned hot in here, Madge!” 

She glanced round apprehensively; then leaned toward 
him. “Alan, for heaven’s sake don’t upset any of these 
good people, or she may not be allowed to go after 
all!” 

A smile of extraordinary infectiousness lit up his face, 
transfiguring it: the lines of humor proved that they 
were not, after all, misplaced. 

“Try a muzzle, Madge! How the dickens do I know 
what may upset the old darlings-” 

“Hush! Here is Mrs. Stockley.” 



32 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

The grim mask of reserve quickly covered his face 
again. 

The Darburyites, hearing that the stranger had at last 
arrived, soon clustered round for introductions, anxious 
to impress him with their own intelligence. But, with 
Barbara, they were doomed to bitter disappointment; for 
this hero refused to be lionized, and declined to talk 
“shop.” Their intelligent overtures left him unimpressed ; 
no pumping drew other than the briefest trickle in reply. 
Unequivocal refusal met the requests for lectures or 
articles, at last daunting even the zealous editor of the 
Lucky-Bag. Enthusiasm gradually waned. The stranger 
was allowed to eat his tea in peace; Miss Davies, who had 
established herself on guard beside him, noticed that he 
ate a large one. 

Miss Brown, from her aloofness, covertly watched the 
disappointing lion with an admiration which caused pro¬ 
lific inspirations. A man of such fine physique, with 
so determined a jaw, must, she felt sure, possess a won¬ 
derful soul. Clad in armor, she visualized a kind of 
Lancelot-Galahad combination, full of gentle courtesy and 
tender chivalry, searching for grails and distressed 
damsels. 

“Oh, damn the beastly thing!” The vigor of the 
words scattered her dreams to the four winds. The other 
Darburyites ceased talking, and looked at him askance. 

“A wasp!” he explained, shaking the insect off his 
hand and grinding it under his heel. A painful silence 
followed. Then, to Mrs. Field’s immense relief, a diver¬ 
sion was caused by the appearance of Major Randall and 
Miss French. She waved cordially to them; but a stif¬ 
fening of the spine seemed to overtake the others; their 
eyes avoided the couple. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


33 


Miss Davies seized this priceless opportunity of re¬ 
counting the new scandal to a stranger in low tones of 
mystery and disgust. 

“It has been a great shock to everybody," she con¬ 
cluded. “His wife at least showed her true colors; but 
we considered his morals beyond reproach. It only 
shows/' she added complacently, “how little anybody can 
be trusted, nowadays." 

“Why?" asked Croft, curiously. “Why do you doubt 
his morals now?" 

She looked mildly surprised. “In my work," she be¬ 
gan heavily, “I see too much-" 

“If people do suspicious things," broke in Mrs. Stock- 
ley, “they must expect to be doubted. They should con¬ 
sider public opinion before acting so rashly." 

“Oh?" he ejaculated, a smile hovering around his lips. 
“But the public only views things through its own mud, 
usually. So what would be the good of that? Nobody 
would ever get anywhere!" 

The two sisters gazed at him blankly, then at each 
other; Mrs. Field plunged to the rescue. 

“Miss Davies doesn’t believe in friendship between 
men and women, Alan," she said, smiling pleasantly upon 
that lady. “She doesn’t think we are necessary to one 
another, apart from marriage as—as—complements to 
our one-sided natures." 

“Are we?” he laughed. “I’m not aware of having 
ever pined for a complement!" 

This remark caused him to rise in Miss Davies’ esti¬ 
mation. 

“Barbara is talking to them—Major Randall and Miss 
French!" exclaimed Mrs. Stockley, surprise and annoy¬ 
ance in her voice. He looked quickly across the tent to 


34 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


where the girl stood near the entrance; then back at the 
other women’s faces, as if making mental notes of an 
interesting problem. 

This was Barbara’s first direct contact with people 
whose lives stretched below the shallows of convention. 
Aware of the disapproval in her mother’s face; accus¬ 
tomed all her life to the Darbury traditions; conscious of 
the confused, traitorous ideas surging within her own 
heart; she felt and looked confused, as she greeted the 
pair. As soon as possible she hurried away to her own 
circle, fully prepared for the maternal displeasure. . . . 
“You must remember they are no longer on my visiting 
list,” finished her mother; and looking up, the girl 
encountered again that penetrating, disconcerting re¬ 
gard. . . . 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson presently sailed in, accompanied 
by Miss Dolly Davies. After the necessary introductions, 
Mrs. Field, with a glance of mingled warning and humor 
at her cousin, hurried away to her flower-stall. 

It was against Mrs. Brent-Hewson’s principles to show 
interest in the views or achievements of others. She 
sank into the chair vacated by Mrs. Field, and sat silently 
stolid for some minutes, ostensibly munching cake while 
mentally digesting everybody else in the tent. All at once, 
remembering the domestic crisis in the cowshed at the 
“House on the Moor,” she wheeled round upon Croft. 

“Has Mrs. Field’s cow come in to-day?” she asked, 
with startling abruptness. 

He gazed vacantly at her for a moment. Suddenly, 
comprehension dawning in his eyes, his lips twitched. 

“Perhaps she will stroll round after tea?” he suggested, 
with disarming innocence. 

By appearing a fool you generally discover the foolish- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


o 

00 

ness in others. Mrs. Brent-Hewson fixed him with a 
cold pensive stare. 

"I meant,” she explained heavily, “has the cow 
calved yet?” 

“Oh? I don’t know.” He leaned forward to Barbara. 
“Can you tell me if Mrs. Field’s cow has become a mother 
yet?” 

The lips, open to bite a bun, remained open. He 
stooped to pick up the fallen bun; then caught the eye 
of Miss Dolly, who was convulsed with silent laughter. 
From that moment he and she became firm friends. 

“I scarcely expected,” remarked Mrs. Brent-Hewson 
scathingly, “to see the cow at the fete! Your knowledge 
of agriculture is obviously limited.” 

“I am a child in such matters,” he agreed warmly. 
“When does she go out ?” 

“Go out ?” echoed the bewildered lady. 

“Yes. If she Tame in’ to produce an heir, when does 
she go out again? I have never studied the— accouche¬ 
ment, isn’t it?—of a cow.” 

The representative of agriculture deliberately turned 
and spoke to somebody else. He had sunk for ever in 
Darbury’s estimation. 

“A vulgar ignorant man,” Miss Horne confided later 
to her disillusioned brother. “It is strange. But of 
course Mrs. Field’s ideas are weird. . . .” 

And Mrs. Brent-Hewson, as she drove her husband 
home—an insignificant cypher low beside her on the box 
seat of her dog-cart—expressed decided views upon the 
lack of real intelligence among men. 

After tea, the disturber of the dovecot whirled away a 
breathless Aunt Dolly, overruling all expostulations, and 
insisted upon sampling all the side-shows. 


36 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Come along,” he urged, when she hesitated beside the 
swing-boats. “Let us stuff all these youngsters into them; 
then try to loop the loop.” And Mrs. Stockley, talking 
with a few County friends near by, was rendered well-nigh 
breathless upon beholding her younger sister, surrounded 
by delighted swarms of village children, shoot up wildly 
toward the sky. . . . Then unlimited cocoa-nuts were 
knocked down by Alan and distributed among an admir¬ 
ing group of boys ; he smashed numerous pipes smoked 
by a hideous “Aunt Sally”; and won Hugh’s unbounded 
approval by hitting the bull’s-eye nearly every time. You 
may reach the hearts of some men via their stomachs; 
but you shot into Hugh’s through his gun. 

When at last Aunt Dolly was captured and taken home 
to safety by her sisters, her companion, after helping his 
cousin to sell flowers for a short time, wandered off upon 
further search for occupation. . . . 

Slowly, to Barbara, the time wore on. More and more 
weary of the monotony, sick of the smell of chocolate, 
she became consumed with restlessness. Miss Brown’s 
gentle patience, however, never wavered. These affairs 
were to her the breath of life. . . . 

All the social world had left long ago. Distant rifle¬ 
shots proved Hugh’s trade to be brisk. He was catching 
the men in dozens now. From the glass walls of the 
winter garden came the exhilarating, if garish, strains of 
dance music, tantalizing in their infectious rhythm. Bar¬ 
bara hummed the tune, tapping her foot in unison, oc¬ 
casionally surprising her companions by performing a 
few revolutions round the tent. In the middle of one of 
these she halted abruptly, for a shadow had fallen across 
the rays of the sun streaming athwart the stall. . . . 

Miss Brown, seeing her hero, hurried to supply the 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


37 


needs of his soul. He bought lavishly, stuffed the pack¬ 
ages into his pocket; then deliberately turned to Barbara. 

“Come and dance with me,” he said. 

Her face expressed blank astonishment. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed confusedly. “I—we—only the 
villagers usually dance here.” 

“Oh, good lord!” 

The amused contempt in his voice made her flush. 
Then, conscious of having given a wrong impression of 
detestable snobbery, she felt furious with herself. Why 
was it that this man continually seemed to put her into a 
foolish position? Was it on purpose, she wondered? 

“You never swerve from convention, I suppose?” he 
asked, watching her sensitive face in his disconcerting 
manner. 

She looked away, uncomfortably self-conscious. 

“I—oh-” She gave an embarrassed laugh. An 

opening door brought a louder riot of music flooding in 
with the evening sunshine. “I—really don’t know.” 

Then some queer, psychological wave seemed to pass 
across the sweet-stall. It brought a strange current of air 
from the great Unknown without, from towering moun¬ 
tains and deep seas scarcely dreamed of in this pretty 
corner of orthodoxy. And it emanated from the figure 
standing motionless before her, whose very appear¬ 
ance seemed symbolical of freedom—the freedom of mind, 
the freedom from petty tyrannies, which is only gained 
by depth of vision, breadth of outlook, contact with the 
forces whose existence was beginning to stir faint echoes 
within her soul. 

“Come!” he exclaimed suddenly, an undertone of im¬ 
patience sounding in his word. 

“Very well,” she said in a low voice. “I will come.” 


38 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

He threw back his head a little, and smiled again. 

V 

To the swaying rhythm of a hackneyed tune, the rus¬ 
tics, tradespeople, and servants of the neighborhood 
performed their parts. That is to say, some frisked 
merrily around; others, hot and perspiring, puffed 
around; and others, with terrific solemnity, conscien¬ 
tiously trod each step around. But they all called it 
waltzing, whatever the movement; and—the chief thing 
that mattered—they all enjoyed themselves immensely. 

The appearance of Barbara with a stranger caused a 
ripple of excitement; for the unwritten law in these 
matters is rigid. Those who break it suffer as much 
comment and criticism as a prime minister. 

No modern affectation showed in Croft’s dancing. He 
abandoned himself to the rhythm of the music, with an 
ease which swept the girl along in sympathetic exhilara¬ 
tion. She forgot the imperfect floor, the clumsy couples, 
the staring eyes, her instinctive dislike of this strange 
man, and surrendered herself to the rare joy of perfect 
harmony in movement. When, for an instant, she 
glanced up at her partner, she saw in his face a corre¬ 
sponding light which filled her with a momentary sense 
of fellowship. 

Afterward, they strolled out on the terrace, flooded 
in the red gold of the setting sun. The subtle perfumes 
of earth and hay, the fragrances of unnamed flowers, 
rose from gardens and meadows. Barbara sat upon the 
low parapet, dreamily inhaling the soft scents. Croft 
flung his long legs over and drew out his cigarettes. 
Presently she found his glance fixed upon her. 

“Well?” he asked, without preliminaries. “What 
about our little trip? Have you counted all the risks?” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


39 


“Risks? No! Or I might never get there!” 

His quick look of approval was lost on the girl, as she 
glanced away with a laugh. 

“When there is a chance of getting your heart’s desire, 
would you count risks?” 

“No!” he ejaculated warmly. “That’s my creed.” 

From the determined lines of his well-cut lips, she 
judged this to be the truth. 

“But your ‘heart’s desire’ ?” he went on; “what do 
you mean by that?” 

She flushed faintly, crumbling bits of mortar between 
her fingers with an air of abstraction; the shy reserve 
in her nature ever made personal talk difficult. 

“Surely you have that?” he suggested boldly, waving 
his cigarette toward the diamond scintillating on her 
finger. 

“Oh, yes. Yes. I have, of course, in that way,” she 
replied hurriedly. 

The band struck up a stirring jazz tune, a medley 
bringing hints of tom-toms, drums, rattling castanets, the 
uncouth music of the East. . . . 

“Oh!” she cried involuntarily, starting up; then sitting 
down again. “But you could never understand,” she 
muttered. 

“What ?” He watched her closely, his cigarette burn¬ 
ing, forgotten, between his fingers. 

“The craving to live for a time! To get out into the 
world; to—to experience everything instead of just read¬ 
ing about it all; to—feel life itself! In huge cities, among 

vast crowds. I want to find out-” She hesitated, 

looking away over the meadows, with a puzzled frown. 
“Something seems lost, missing in some way. I—I 
can’t explain.” She turned back to him, the color in 


40 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


her face heightened. But he did not laugh as Hugh 
would have done. 

“ ‘Huge cities’ ?” he queried slowly. “You think you 
will find it in them ? Why not in remote villages ?” 

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Nothing ever happens in them! 
They are like stagnant pools.” 

“Something will happen, some day: the most stagnant 
pool sometimes gets flooded. Then you may regret it.” 

“No,” she said with decision. “I could never regret 
anything that meant experience—adventure—of some 
sort! But villages are only full of little obscurities. I 
want to sample bigger things-” 

“They will be but ‘little obscurities’ in fresh places,” 
he interrupted. “The whole world is only composed of 
little notes, you know, and their reverberations. Some 
get more stress, and their echoes have more wide-reach¬ 
ing effects; that is all.” 

She listened in surprise. In her experience, talk like 
this, especially from a man, was unusual; but from one 
famed for a life of action it seemed little short of miracu¬ 
lous. Had a horse, renowned for good jumping, suddenly 
turned and quoted poetry to her, she would scarcely have 
been more astonished. 

“Well,” she said, enjoying the novelty of metaphor, 
“I want to feel the big ‘reverberations’—to get among 
deep chords, in fact!” 

“They might be rather overpowering.” He shot a 
quick glance over the young eager face under its shady 
hat, and the dainty white-clad figure. “It’s having 
some sort of right keynote that counts.” 

She knit puzzled brows, trying to follow his meaning. 
What keynote could there be to all the jumble of separate 
entities that make up life? 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


4i 


“What keynote the world uses is, I suppose, what you 
want to discover?” he asked. 

“Do I? Is that it?” Eagerly she leaned toward him. 
“Oh, I wonder- What do you think it is ?” 

He blew out a cloud of smoke; then smiled. “Good¬ 
ness knows! Perhaps there isn’t one. What private 
ones do we all use? Don’t you often wonder, when you 
meet a number of new people-?” 

“But I never do meet them! It is quite an event to 
meet a stranger,” she assured him. 

“Then this is one of your eventful days?” 

“Oh, well, yes! I suppose it is,” she owned, smiling. 
He smoked in silence for a time, as if pondering; then 
threw away his cigarette, and spoke briskly. 

“Well, you shall soon meet plenty—of all nationalities. 
Even natives, in the Philippines.” 

Barbara came back to practical realities with a start. 
“Natives! Are they black? I should loathe them.” 

“Oh, no; surely not. I like them immensely.” 

She looked at him incredulously. “But why the 
Philippines ?” 

“I have to go to Borneo and the Philippines for the 
firm. Ordinarily we should go straight on, of course, 
from Singapore.” He plunged into details of the journey, 
and she listened enthralled. To flash like a meteor over 
France, Italy, Egypt, India, with a few days at each land¬ 
ing-place, and the detour to the Pacific, exceeded all she 
had ever dreamed. The world—at last! 

With a little encouragement he went on to tell her of 
other strange lands and stranger people, while the sun 
set in a big ball, and the band clashed out its wild merri¬ 
ment. For the first time she felt the actual winds of 
life blowing around her. . . . 




42 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Abruptly he broke off. 

“But I have not yet discovered, in strange lands and 
crowded cities, what is wrong with the world! I hope 
you succeed in your ‘heart’s desire.’ It’s a tall order.” 

A subtle change in his manner gave her the impression 
again that, inwardly, he laughed at her. She felt, as she 
had over the incident of the rat, that to him she appeared 
foolishly feminine. 

“Anyway, it is a wonderful chance. I am grateful 
to you for giving it to me,” she replied, with stilted 
politeness. 

“To me?” he asked; then gave a short laugh. “Oh, 
not at all. I am merely the pilot!” 

She flushed crimson, remembering her own words at 
the sweet-stall. With a sense of relief, she saw Hugh 
hailing her from the terrace steps. 

“Are you fixing up the trip?” he asked, joining them. 
Placing his hands on the girl’s shoulders, he smiled across 
at Croft. “Look here! Will you please satiate Bab 
with travel, with sight-seeing, so that she returns fed 
up to the teeth ? That will insure a peaceful honeymoon, 
and I shall be eternally obliged!” 

Croft looked puzzled; and Barbara explained lucidly: 

“Hugh wants to spend his honeymoon in his father’s 
farmyard; and I want to go-” 

“Somewhere in the moon,” Hugh broke in. “So our 
only hope of a ‘happy issue’ as the prayer-book calls it, 
lies in you.” 

“Good lord!” laughed the other. “It’s rather a curious 
position! When is the wedding ?” 

“On December twentieth. Be sure you send her back 
in time!” 

Croft’s face grew sober. In his quick decided fashion, 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


43 

he swung his legs back over the parapet and stood up, 
facing Hugh. 

“You are quite willing for her to go, I suppose?” 

Both glanced at him, surprised at the earnestness of 
his tone. 

“I know you will take the utmost care of her,” Hugh 
replied. 

“Of course.” 

Suddenly and unexpectedly the younger man held out 
his hand. Croft took it in a close grip; but Barbara gave 
an amused laugh. 

She struck down lightly with her fingers; and the two 
hands fell apart 

After having been carried away unexpectedly into a 
state of exaltation, into a world far removed from that 
of every-day life, one often falls back, when the cause 
is removed, into a state of peculiar depression, not un¬ 
mixed with fear. 

Thus it was with Barbara. During the drive home 
in Hugh’s little car she sat close against his arm, unus¬ 
ually silent. Back among Darbury realities, the peculiar 
domination of Croft’s personality removed, all the past 
exhilaration left her. She wondered at it; felt almost 
ashamed at her own disclosures; afraid of the force 
that had drawn them from her. When he had bidden 
her good night, the same subtle change was in his man¬ 
ner. It still seemed to her that beneath the coldness 
lurked a certain mockery. Again she had felt small, 
foolish, ridiculously feminine. . . . 

Hugh broke in upon her meditations. “Croft’s a top¬ 
ping shot!” he exclaimed warmly. “And Mrs. Field told 
me his golf handicap was scratch at one time-” 



44 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

“Oh, Hughie!” she cried, “that doesn’t make him 
likable.” 

“Why ? Don’t you like him ?” He turned toward her, 
in genuine surprise. 

She hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I do. 
He is very—inscrutable. He leads you on to talk, when 
all the time he is only laughing at you. Hughie-” 

“Yes?” 

She leaned impulsively toward him, with a little sigh. 
“Oh, I don’t know! I wish you were coming. You are 
so safe.” 

Hugh laughed, and the car swerved in the narrow 
lane. “Bab, you’ve got the jimjams! Look here: about 
your return on the boat. I’m going to pay for that.” 

“Oh, no, no! It’s dear of you, but I have a little 
money of my own: what father left me, you know-” 

“Keep that in the bank. We may get ‘broke’ some 
day! I want to pay for this, Bab, dear; so don’t be a 
perverse old thing. It—it brings you back to me, hang 
it all!” 

She was infinitely touched, as she invariably was by 
his clumsy, rare attempts to express his feelings. A lump 
rose unexpectedly in her throat. “I almost wish I were 
not going. ... I can’t bear leaving you, Hughie.” 

“You never shall again!” he declared reassuringly. 
These impulsive moods were characteristic of his Barbara. 

Her depression was not lifted by the conversation 
round the supper-table. The news of the dancing episode 
had preceded her, and Mrs. Stockley’s ideas upon Posi¬ 
tion were outraged. Miss Dolly Davies’ behavior, too, 
had shocked her sisters. The meal proceeded, therefore, 
to the accompaniment of dark innuendoes and grave 
warnings to the prospective travelers. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


45 

Miss Mary Davies, with her experience of the world 
(in Pension form) was full of wisdom. 

“Men whose ideas upon morality are lax can never be 
trusted far,” she said decisively. “And I greatly fear— 
this is in strict confidence of course! But you ought to 
be warned. I strongly suspect him of intemperance.” 

“Indeed? Why?” asked Miss Dolly, in surprise. 

“I asked him about temperance work in Australia; 
but he took absolutely no interest in the subject. He 
even confessed he did not agree with taking the pledge!” 

“Really?” ejaculated Mrs. Stockley. 

“He called it a 'sign of weakness/ and 'a refuge for 
those who lack self-control.’ With the usual nonsense 
about nothing being wrong unless it is abused.” 

Mrs. Stockley never did anything so unrefined as to 
snort. But she made a noise much resembling that 
action, and deigned no reply. 

“Hugh likes him,” said Barbara, making a weak effort 
to combat the strange misgivings which this talk was 
strengthening. The knowledge seeming to fortify her, 
she repeated it: “Hugh likes him very much.” 

When at last she slept, she dreamed confusedly. Lost 
in some dark place, she called passionately for Hugh, 
running on and on in terror; but, at last reaching the 
light, she found the path blocked by Croft’s figure, with 
head flung back and arms outstretched. Far away, Hugh 
was ratting with Shag, unconscious of her trouble. . . . 

• Meanwhile, the cause of this perturbation leaned 
against one of the veranda posts at the “House on the 
Moor” smoking a pipe and watching Mrs. Field, who sat 
in a wicker chair near the lamp, checking the accounts of 
her stall. His level dark brows were drawn down in a 
frown, his eyes looked moody. 


46 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Chuck those darned accounts, Madge!” he broke in, 
at last, without ceremony. “You’ve got one to settle 
with me.” 

She waved an expostulating arm, muttering incoherent 
sums below her breath. Presently, making a few quick 
marks with her pencil, she flung the note-book upon the 
table. 

“What’s the matter, Alan ? And where are my cigs. ? 
Oh, I’m sitting on them.” 

“There is no end to the matter,” he retorted, striking 
a match for her. “You’ve landed me in a nice old mess! 
I seem to be regarded here as a kind of Cook’s Guide.” 

Mrs. Field lay back in her chair with a gurgle of 
laughter. 

“Laugh if it amuses you,” he begged, with ironic 
politeness. “But when you pestered me to give your 
friends a joy-ride-” 

“I—oh, Alan! You know very well you implored 
me to find two passengers !” 

At least two passengers on both journeys, in addition 
to the crew, had been one of the stipulations in this 
test trip. The men who had come over in that capacity 
had been, unexpectedly, prevented from returning. Croft 
could not contradict her statement. 

“But I didn’t bargain for women,” he protested re- 
belliously. 

Mrs. Field sighed with mock resignation. “Alan, you 
are being tiresome again! I thought we had settled 
all that? At least,” she laughed, “I hoped so—after 
quite a week’s solid argument. You couldn’t get any 
men you wanted. You were obliged to find somebody 
at short notice, or lose the contract. And you knew my 
reasons for wanting Barbara to go-” 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


47 


“All excellent logic. Well ?” 

“Well! Why begin all over again? I thought you 
had agreed ?” 

“I have! Don’t get in a spin, Madge. I was merely 
going to remonstrate with you for not coaching me in 
all my duties.” 

“Indeed? What are they?” 

“Firstly, to teach a parson’s daughter what is wrong 
with the world. Secondly, to pave the way for a farm¬ 
yard honeymoon. Thirdly, to show off all the side¬ 
shows en route to two women. What the devil I’m going 
to do with them both I don’t know!” 

“That’s what I would give a fortune to see!” she 
murmured. 

“Run them up leaning towers, down catacombs, round 
pyramids, I suppose? Then come and open a girls’ 
school? Will that suit you? I only hope,” he added 
fervently, “they don’t lose their heads if there is an 
accident. I couldn’t stand hysterical women swarming 
around.” 

“Neither Barbara nor her aunt is hysterical. What is 
the matter, Alan?” she repeated. “It is unlike you to 
consider troubles before they arrive. Barbara is of a 
nervous temperament; but she has plenty of pluck.” 

“I wonder,” he mused, half to himself, “how much 
she would have in any real test.” 

His companion glanced up in surprise at both the re¬ 
mark and the tone. 

“You liked her?” 

“She is interesting,” was his non-committal reply. 
“She is standing on the scales and the balance is pretty 
level at present; but—I wonder which way it would 


swing- 



48 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


He broke off, and again his cousin contemplated him 
curiously. But he stood outside the radius of the shaded 
lamp; only the dark outline of his tall form was dis¬ 
tinguishable. 

“Barbara has received the call to Life, as opposed to 
mere existence,” she said musingly. “And that is always 
irresistible. Her surroundings are very narrow. It is 
only fair to give her one chance.” 

“Certainly,” he agreed. “But it’s damned awkward— 
in the circumstances—to be the one to give it! There 
is always the danger that she may realize, if she wakes 
up-” He left the phrase unfinished. 

“Yes,” murmured his cousin. “But it is only fair 
——” She too fell silent for a time. “Hugh is such a 
dear,” she remarked at last, with apparent irrelevance. 

But no further comment came from the surrounding 
darkness; and adroitly she turned the subject. 

“What are you going to do afterward, Alan?” 

“Ah!” he exclaimed, with a complete change of tone. 
He came quickly forward into the circle of light and sat 
astride a chair, facing her. 

“I have great schemes, Madge—here!” tapping his 
forehead. “Schemes that will revolutionize civil aviation!” 

She smiled at his characteristic, though unconscious, 
arrogance. 

“You certainly aim pretty high,” she murmured. 

“I always aim at the top,” he replied promptly. “If you 
only aim half-way you probably never get off the 
ground.” 

“That’s true. Well?” 

“It—you won’t understand all the theory. It’s an in¬ 
vention for alighting safely if the engines give out. 
About ninety per cent, of the fatal accidents would be 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


49 


saved. And the boon to commerce, of course-! Look 

here! Let me show you, Madge.” Seizing the pencil, he 
leaned eagerly forward, over his tilted chair-back, to the 
table. . . . 

For the next half-hour Mrs. Field found herself sub¬ 
merged in diagrams, technical terms, minute scientific 
details of angles, balance, lift-drift ratio, stress, strain, 
and a hundred other items which, under the magic of his 
crisp, lucid explanations, became wonderful skeins in an 
ingenious pattern, instead of the jumble of colored silks 
comprising ignorance. 

“So you see? The other old bus was only the thin 
wedge. But that patent has caught on. Eve got my 
foot firmly on the ladder! Now I can go ahead; and 

in a few years-” He broke off with an exultant 

laugh, waving an arm as if to encircle the universe. 

“It is all splendid, Alan! Splendid!” she cried en¬ 
thusiastically. “But I always had faith in you. You 
manage to succeed in whatever you undertake.” 

“Oh, I never meant to fail! I have never failed yet.” 

She watched him silently for a few moments, a smile 
of almost motherly affection illuminating her kind face. 

“You have no ambitions of another kind, yet? Of 
—marrying, for example?” she suggested unexpectedly. 

“Good lord, no! I have no time nor inclination for 
that. Surely you are not becoming one of those idiots 
who think nobody’s happiness is complete unless they are 
tied up in a matrimonial noose?” 

“Oh, no!” she owned, smiling. “All the same, I think 
a life that has no time for love is not complete.” 

He looked at her under raised eyebrows, as he refilled 
his pipe. 

?” 


“Implying- 




50 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Well—yes! Implying!” she replied, with a laugh. 

“You are wrong,” he retorted. “Mine is complete!— 
Full up to the brim.” 

When she rose to go to bed, she took the muscular 
hand, and looked at the long clever fingers for a moment 
before pressing them warmly in her own. 

“Don’t become too much of a machine,” she suggested 
tentatively. 

“I can’t!” he laughed, returning the pressure with a 
zest which was almost painful. “I’m about to become 
a Cook’s Guide!” 

VI 

No clouds broke the panoply of blue from which the 
sun blazed like a ball of silver-white fire; the warm 
air was unstirred by any breath of wind. 

Glittering like dragon-flies, several machines hummed 
and buzzed near the aerodrome, some rising on trial trips, 
others soaring far overhead, a few “looping” or diving 
down in spirals, as though intoxicated with the exhilara¬ 
tion of the summer morning. Occasionally one sank 
slowly to the ground, and sprang over the turf with a 
resilient airiness as if, like a feather, it might at any 
moment rise and blow away again. 

A small crowd of people, including reporters and pho¬ 
tographers, stood near the monster which loomed up 
stationary after a final trial flight; brooding, like a hawk 
that had marked some possible prey; ready to rise with 
a quiver of vast wings, hover for a moment, then swoop 
relentlessly down. . . . The sunlight flashed upon the 
four propellers and the engines, now so placid and silent. 

Barbara, clad in the beaver-lined flying cap and leather 
coat which Hugh had given her, stood close beside him, 
watching the giant plane and its attendants somewhat 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


5i 

nervously. It was, after all, a big adventure to embark 
upon. . . . Hugh was very dear. . . . 

The last days had whirled quickly by with preparations 
for her long journey added to the usual parish and house¬ 
hold work which she was not expected to relinquish until 
the last moment. Only once had she again seen Croft. 
That was in church, the day after the fete; he stood 
beside Mrs. Field, looking quite out of place, in his loose 
flannels, among a congregation clad in its orthodox Sun¬ 
day garments, chiefly of navy blue. 

Mrs. Field had bidden Barbara farewell some days ago, 
and had gone to the famine areas of Central Europe on 
an organization campaign. Noticing the wistfulness of 
the girl’s face, something had compelled her to turn back 
and kiss her again, when they parted. 

“You don’t regret going, Bab, dear?” she had asked. 

Barbara shook her head vigorously. “No! I feel a 
little depressed over leaving Hugh; that’s all. It seems 
as though something—I don’t know what—were ending. 
I suppose that’s natural upon going away for the first 
time? Is it?” she added anxiously. 

Mrs. Field knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. 

“Quite natural,” she replied cheerfully. “And—Bab,” 
she went on, hesitating a little, “if you need Alan’s 
friendship for any reason, I think you would find it 
worth having.” 

“Oh,” the girl said hastily, “I don’t think he—we— 
I shall never quite understand him.” 

Feeling that to be likely, Mrs. Field said no more. She 
had sown the seed, if ever it were needed. . . . 

Then the last night at home- With luggage 

ready to be closed and strapped, she had looked around 
her familiar little room with mixed feelings. When next 


52 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


she slept here, what would she have learned of the things 
beyond that life-long barrier of hills visible from her 
window ? 

With a warm rush of tenderness, she remembered that, 
upon her return, her new life as Hugh’s wife would 
begin. 

Taking the large photograph of him from the wall, she 
placed it carefully within her packed box. 

Then, getting into bed, she blew out the candle. . . . 

And now the moment of departure had come. While 
Aunt Dolly talked to the navigator, she remained silent 
beside the one sure anchor of her old life, that safety- 
valve to all her youthful moods. Hugh, also, was un¬ 
usually silent, suddenly realizing that a parting of months 
lay before them. 

Presently Croft appeared, looking big and alert in his 
flying kit, with an air of confidence about him which com¬ 
municated itself, in some subtle way, to Barbara. Having 
been detained over a matter of form in the office, he 
hurried their start. As she followed her aunt up the 
steps, she stumbled a little, and he caught her hand. It 
was trembling, she knew; he shot her a quick glance, 
and she felt again the unpleasant sensation of smallness; 
as if, in that brief moment, all her fears and shrinkings of 
the past ten days were perceived. 

Hugh followed her into the cabin, where she turned 
and clung to him. He drew her into his arms and 
kissed her with more passion than usual. 

“We shall be married directly you return, Bab, dar¬ 
ling,” he said huskily, feeling a suspicious lump in his 
throat. “I—I’ll meet you, when you come back. It won’t 
be long.” 

Croft’s back was visible in the pilot’s seat. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


53 


Hugh knew that his Barbara’s warm-hearted impulses 
occasionally resulted in moments of embarrassment. 
Gently loosening the clinging arms, he bade Aunt Dolly 
farewell. Then he turned to the cabin door, hesitated, 
came back, kissed Barbara’s wet cheeks closely and 
hurriedly again, and ran down the steps. 

The navigator and the mechanics, who had accom¬ 
panied the machine from Australia, took their places. 
There followed the short regulation catechism between 
pilot and mechanics below, proving the last details to be 
in order. . . . Then the four powerful engines began 
their vibrating, deafening roar, seeming to pulsate 
through every fiber of those standing near. The pro¬ 
pellers swung round, glittering. 

Croft leaned down and waved farewell; then he gave 
the signal. The chocks were withdrawn from before the 
wheels. Slowly, the machine glided away. 

But with quick transition, the movement merged into 
the swift run of a bird seeking cover. Faster and yet 
faster, it became a wild roaring race across the grass, 
which soon the little wheels failed to touch, as, at an 
incredibly short distance, the aeroplane rose lightly from 
the ground. Rising ever higher, with infinite grace, she 
soared up into the limitless blue; then swung round in a 
wide sweep, sparkling in the sunlight as if studded with 
jewels. 

A murmur of admiration for masterful handling rose 
from the group of spectators. 

Thrice she circled, high above the heads of those who 
watched. Then, sure of her capabilities, she turned, with 
a final upward curve, and settled down to her work. 
Unswerving, she headed straight for the southeast coast 
and the world beyond. . . . 


54 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


The days wore on to weeks, full of the important 
trifles that constitute daily country life. For a time Dar- 
bury felt a little flat, lacking in sensation* There 
seemed to be a dearth of subjects for conversation; and 
when a parish has nothing to talk about, it is in a bad 
way. It has to manufacture something. 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson came at last to the rescue, by con¬ 
ceiving a passion for drains. She announced herself as 
convinced of the inadequacy of Darbury’s drainage sys¬ 
tem. This resulted in a mild civil war between the 
ultra-conservative faction, which could not imagine im¬ 
provements upon what existed in the days of their 
great-grandparents, and the ultra-moderns, who labeled 
every existing thing “wrong” from the Government 
downward. 

Then a fresh period of calm fell upon the land. Miss 
Brown began a story with a hero whose hair was black 
instead of the usual golden; and one of Hugh’s friends, 
Tom Westwoods, came for shooting and cubbing. Let¬ 
ters from Barbara were frequent and full of enthusiasm. 
Croft was evidently fulfilling the part allotted to him to 
the letter, during the calls at each sight-seeing place; and 
Hugh felt grateful. 

“We don’t see much of him,” she wrote, “but he ar¬ 
ranges for guides so that we miss nothing. He took 
me down the catacombs at Rome, himself. They were 
so dark, and horribly full of death. ... I hated them! 
But he laughed and would not let me turn back. We 
went on for miles! I wished you were there, Hughie. . . . 
One of the mechanics became quite ill, and was left at 
Rome. . .” 

Hugh smiled at this drastic treatment. The restlessness 
which, to his mind, had seemed but a strange sudden 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


55 

craving for excitement, would, he hoped, be entirely 
dispelled. 

When letters became more infrequent, owing to dis¬ 
tance, wireless messages stated that all was well. . . . 

With delightful suddenness a fresh thrill was provided 
for Darbury by Jenny Grant, a village girl. She had, it 
was rumored, “got into trouble” with a sailor who had 
recently been on leave in the neighborhood. 

Miss Davies now, of course, came to the fore, being, 
fortunately, installed at Lake Cottage during Barbara’s 
absence. She arose in her own righteousness to put “the 
fear of the Lord” into the wretched girl, overlooking 
the love of Him. Afterward, she hustled her victim 
away to one of those places known as “Homes,” thus 
saving Darbury from contamination. Mrs. Stockley, 
with commendable charity, placed a large part of the 
blame on the girl’s mother. The mother had seceded 
from the church upon the advent of incense soon after 
Mr. Horne’s arrival, and was now known as a “chapel 
woman”; therefore, of course, she was no favorite with 
the bishop’s descendant. . . . 

There is, proverbially, a lull before a storm. Darbury, 
during those peaceful days of late summer, had no intui¬ 
tion of the most terrible thrill of all, in these days of 
thrills. 

Hugh, especially, was of too bright and wholesome a 
nature to have misgivings, when the sun shone and all 
seemed well. 

Returning one day with his friend from a morning’s 
cubbing, it was therefore with no sense of impending 
disaster that he reined up at Lake Cottage and proposed 
calling. They dismounted, tethering their horses to the 
gate. A small group of people, talking together near the 


56 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


main road, turned and cast wondering looks in his direc¬ 
tion. Perceiving Miss Horne among them, he waved 
gaily; then threw away his cigarette, and turned into the 
short drive. 

It was one of those glorious mornings at the end of 
September in which late summer and early autumn inter¬ 
mingle. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the lake 
into little waves; waterfowl called to each other in hoarse 
shrieks; a few snowy swans soared with a rush of wings, 
and flew off toward the smaller lake on the common. 
Hugh glanced round with a pleased sense of appreciation. 

Then he rang the bell. 

The face of old Martha, who opened the door, was red 
and swollen with weeping. Her limbs trembled, as if 
from sudden shock. 

“Why, Martha!” he exclaimed kindly, “what’s the 
matter?” 

For a moment she gazed at him blankly, half in aston¬ 
ishment, half in fear; then, without a word, she burst 
into hysterical sobs and turned back into the house. 

The color ebbed a little from Hugh’s face. He looked 
at his friend in vague apprehension, and they silently 
followed the woman into the drawing-room. Instead of 
being bright and fragrant with the flowers Barbara loved 
about her, it seemed strangely cold, gloomy and deserted. 

A chill fell on Hugh. 

“Where is Mrs. Stockley?” he asked uneasily. 

“Up-stairs,” sobbed Martha. She walked to the little 
bureau and picked up a telegram. Turning slowly, she 
half held it toward him, and the flimsy paper trembled 
violently in her hands. 

Hugh took the telegram slowly from the woman. For 
a moment he looked uncertainly at her frightened face, 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


57 


then round the familiar room, as if dreading to read it. 
. . . At last, with an obvious effort, he raised the sheet, 
and turned away. . . . 

The telegram fluttered, unheeded, to the floor; and 
Hugh raised shaking hands to his head, in a vague un¬ 
certain manner. He turned slowly, his face ashen, hag¬ 
gard and old all at once. His lips moved a little, but 
no sound came; he looked at his friend with the bewild¬ 
ered eye of a dumb animal awakening to some terrible 
pain of which, as yet, it is not wholly conscious. 

Tom Westwoods picked up the telegram. 

It was from the London agents of Croft’s firm. He 
read the few bald sentences so fraught with tragic mean¬ 
ing. The aeroplane, it stated, in characteristically crude 
words, was missing. The lifeless body of the mechanic 
had been found in the water, where, it was feared, the 
rest had perished. Search was in progress, but with 
small hope of success. A typhoon had swept across the 
seas verging upon the Philippine Islands. One wireless 
message of distress had come from the machine. 

Then silence fell. 


PART TWO 


THE RISING ORCHESTRA 

I 

Dawn broke at last, the first dull lines of gray merg¬ 
ing into a myriad pearly tints. Birds awoke in the forest; 
rustled amid the leaves; shook their wings; then flew 
forth to hunt for breakfast: their brilliant plumage 
reflected the sun's rays in a thousand bright hues as they 
flashed from beneath the shadowy trees. 

Upon the sloping shore of a tiny cove, the waters of 
the lagoon lapped in a gentle, rippling murmur. Farther 
away, the surf of the open sea boomed like distant thun¬ 
der against the barrier reef; waves swirled angrily 
through the gap which formed an inlet, hurling their vast 
strength against the high, rock-like walls only to break 
into fountains of white spray and floating masses of 
foam; dragged, hissing, back again to prepare for a fresh 
attack. 

Partly telescoped upon a jagged promontory jutting 
inland from the entrance, rising and falling helplessly at 
the mercy of the tide foaming through, loomed a mass of 
something dark. It looked strange, shapeless, forlornly 
tragic, as if flung down by a ruthless hand and forgotten. 
Here and there bits of metal sparkled in the sun's 
gleams. 

Upon the ground of the opposite cove, near a heap of 

58 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


59 


wet coats, little rivulets trickling from her drenched 
garments, lay the inert form of a girl. A man, likewise 
sodden from head to foot, knelt beside her, anxiously 
forcing brandy between her pale lips from a small pocket- 
flask. Presently he paused, a sudden dread in his heart, 
and with his head close to her wet blouse, listened. . . . 
Then, with renewed energy, he set vigorously to work 
again. 

At last she gave a little quivering sigh. Her hands 
moved gropingly. He tried again to pour a few drops of 
the fluid between her lips, but she turned her head away 
with a moan. . . . Soon, with another, longer sigh, she 
opened her eyes and gazed blankly, as one newly awak¬ 
ened from a troubled dream, into his face. Raising a 
hand to her head, the vacant gaze changed to one of 
feeble wonder. 

“Why, are you—'hurt?” she half whispered. 

Until then he had not recognized that the stream trick¬ 
ling down his face was blood. With his fingers he traced 
what was apparently a long jagged cut stretching from 
his temple to the left ear: it smarted when touched. 
Taking the wet handkerchief from his pocket, he sat back 
and dabbed at it with the clumsy movements of a man 
unused to troubling over personal injuries. His look was 
still fixed anxiously upon the girl’s face. 

As she gazed round the unfamiliar scene, an expression 
of bewilderment crept into her eyes. Remembrance 
slowly returning, this merged into concern, then fear. 
. . . Quickly it grew to terror. . . . Sitting upright, 
she turned wildly to the man at her side. 

“Where are we? where are we?” 

“We crashed on that reef,” he replied quietly. “The 
last engine gave out-” 


6o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“But—how—did we get here?” 

“I found you in the water, and swam in.” 

Fearfully she looked toward the dark mass, as if 
measuring mentally the distance from shore, scarcely un¬ 
derstanding the full meaning of this feat. Then she 
looked about her as if seeking somebody . . . finally 
turned to him, mutely asking the question her trembling 
lips dared not frame. 

He laid a hand upon her shoulder, instinctively fortify¬ 
ing her for the complete realization of the dread that was 
dawning in her brain. 

She caught his arm in a feverish grip, her eyes wild. 
“Captain Croft—tell me! The others? . . . Where is 
Aunt Dolly?” 

A look, so full of anguish that it seemed as though the 
soul behind were in the tortures of hell, was her only 
answer. 

She gazed, awestruck, for a breathless moment, at his 
haggard eyes and drawn blood-stained face, at the fea¬ 
tures usually so cloaked with reserve now betraying 
unbearable agony; then, with a hoarse moaning cry, she 
collapsed in an abandonment of horror at his feet. . . . 

For long, long minutes no sound was audible but the 
thundering surf round what had been the fulfilment of a 
man’s labor, the cherished dream of his ambition, and 
the lapping wavelets near at hand. . . . 

Presently Croft raised his head, and stood up. He gave 
one long look seaward, to the grave of such unlimited 
pride and hope; to where, also, those who had risked their 
lives with him now lay hidden beneath the smiling blue. 
With a long sigh, he turned away, setting his teeth and 
squaring his shoulders . . . then looked at the figure 
lying face downward at his feet. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


61 


Women had ever played a small part in his life. Filled 
to overflowing with travel, engineering, aviation, the war, 
and, above all, the ambitious dreams of an inventive 
brain, his thirty odd years had been passed outside the 
influence of sex. Roughly, he had divided women into 
two categories—those whom, like Mrs. Field, he could 
respect intellectually and treat with the frank comrade¬ 
ship of man with man; and those whom he had desig¬ 
nated “hysterical females.” It is doubtful if any, save 
his cousin, had received more than a passing thought 
until she placed Barbara’s photograph in his hands and 
waved her wand. He saw the original, her dawning 
woman’s soul struggling to expand amid a garden half- 
strangled in the close tendrils of its scentless herbage. 
. . . And he found her about to be planted in another’s 
garden and surrounded by its little conventional hedge. 

Dropping on his knees, he gently raised her, so that 
she leaned against him. 

“Come!” he urged, with forced brightness. “We must 
buck up, you know, and see what can be done.” 

She uncovered her white desolate face. 

“Tell me—first—what happened,” she besought. “It 

seems like a—a hideous nightmare-” Shuddering 

violently, she hid her face again. 

“We had some engine trouble soon after leaving the 
Philippines, as you know, which obliged us to return 
there to land,” he replied. “We got caught in the center 
of a typhoon near the coast, and were driven completely 
out of our course-” 

“It was awful—awful! That terrible, deafening roar!” 
She began again to tremble violently. 

“We were hurled into an air-pocket which caused us 
to drop nearly a thousand feet,” he continued hurriedly. 



62 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“That put two more engines out of action and injured 
the fourth. Only a miracle prevented our being dashed 
straight into the sea. After a bit I saw land here, and 

hoped to reach it in time; but she crashed too soon--” 

He stopped, perceiving the state of her shattered nerves. 
Standing up, he raised her with him; and she clung 
convulsively to his arm, every limb shaking as if with 
ague. 

“Something burst ?'' she said. “I—I saw the mechanic 
fall! It was the last thing I remember. He—he 
screamed——-■ Oh-h!” Her eyes dilated with horrible 
memories. 

“A cylinder blew off one of the starboard engines back 
toward the fusilage, when we were dropping,” explained 
Croft briefly. Unclasping her hands, he drew her arm 
through his, turning their steps inland; his own feelings 
being almost beyond his usual iron control, he spoke 
roughly: 

“For heaven's sake, don't talk or think about it all, 
just now! We shall go raving mad if we do!'' 

The words and tone acted as a tonic. Something of 
her first feeling of inferiority in his presence returned, 
causing her to struggle fiercely against the weakness that 
threatened to overcome her. 

They walked a little distance in silence. On their right 
a dense mass of vegetation sloped almost to the water's 
edge, huge forest trees stretching their branches out over 
the shingle. On their left rose a rugged hill, jutting into 
the lagoon between the mainland and the reef, like a 
mountain spur. Down the valley between, the stream 
rippled over mossy stones in its narrow bed, sometimes 
falling in small cascades over uneven ground, to the 
shore. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 63 

“There’s generally an opening in a brier reef opposite 
a fresh-water river,” Croft observed. 

“Why?” she inquired, without any interest. To talk 
of anything, however, was better than the silence which 
encouraged thought. 

“It’s supposed that the sediment it contains injures the 
reef-building polypes, preventing their working opposite.” 
He stood and regarded the hill on their left. “The land 
shelves down precipitately from this hill; which is why 
the reef is nearer on that far side of its opening. They 
can’t build where the water is too deep.” 

“Why?” she asked listlessly again, but anxious for 
him to keep talking. 

“Because the polypes can’t live and work below a cer¬ 
tain depth—about twenty fathoms or so. Awfully inter¬ 
esting, coral! Don’t you think so ?” 

She confessed entire ignorance on the subject This 
little digression, however, had served its purpose for 
them both. Drawing her arm free, she proposed bathing 
their faces in the cool stream. Revived by this, she be¬ 
came aware of their bedraggled state, of the discomfort 
of wet clinging garments, and of Croft’s ineffectual ef¬ 
forts to staunch the wound on his head. 

Shyly she went to him where he knelt upon the bank. 

“Let me do that. Shall I ?” she asked. 

“Don’t you mind blood?” 

“Of course not!” she answered indignantly. 

He handed her the blood-stained wet handkerchief 
without a word, inclining his head toward her. In a 
few minutes he rose to his feet, all traces of blood washed 
away, his head bandaged adroitly with her own hand¬ 
kerchief twisted in his. 

“I’m going up that hill, to view the land,” he said, 


6 4 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


with abrupt decision, proceeding toward it as if oblivious 
of her presence. 

“I’m coming too!” she exclaimed, hastening after him. 

“Oh! Why ?” he asked, pausing. “It will be a scramble. 
I shall soon come back.” 

“I’m not going to be left alone down here! There may 
be alligators and things!” 

He gave an impatient smile. “Come along, then; I’ll 
help you up.” 

“Oh, no, thanks! I can manage quite well,” she replied 
rather coldly, nettled by his tone and manner. 

He said no more, but began to climb the rugged rock- 
strewn hillside with the agility of a mountain goat. 

Barbara struggled after him, slipping, bruising herself, 
panting for breath. The shock had left her weak and 
unnerved. She sank upon the ground, drawing hard 
sobbing breaths. Croft, without a backward glance, was 
disappearing among the larger boulders at the summit. 
Fearful of being left, she rose again and scrambled on. 
Her aching head throbbed wildly now; sudden dizziness 
caused everything to swim around her. . . . Stumbling 
over a half-concealed rock, she fell prone upon the 
ground. . . . There she lay, conscious of a terrible si¬ 
lence. No other sentient being seemed to move within a 
world so full of awful loneliness that it appalled her: it 
was almost tangible. A great wave of fear, grief, loss, 
homesickness, wild—almost child-like—longing for 
Hugh, swept her away. For the first time since the 
horror began, she found relief in tears. She lay there 
alone, sobbing weakly. . . . 

From the top of the hill Croft scanned what was visible 
of the land along the north, east and west coasts. Rising 
forest ground hid the south from view; but it could not. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


65 


he judged, be more than eight or nine miles away. Save 
for the belt of verdure beyond the stream, and another 
stretching down to the blue line of the water away to the 
east, this northern side appeared to be principally barren, 
with occasional precipitous spurs jutting out to sea, sim¬ 
ilar to that upon which he stood. This was, he concluded, 
an island of volcanic origin, with the exceptionally high 
reef more or less surrounding it, sometimes at a con¬ 
siderable distance from, and sometimes fairly near, the 
shore. 

Down below stretched a wide bay, from which the 
ground sloped up at a gentle gradient. Between the 
shore of this bay and the reef not far away the water 
appeared very shallow, interspersed with peculiar little 
groups of rocks resembling miniature coral islands. He 
surveyed this view critically, a purpose forming in his 
mind. 

The gradient inland culminated in a short, fairly steep 
rise to a grove of cocoa palms, near which a clearing was 
visible, covered with little groups of something—possibly 
caves or rocks. Nowhere did there appear to be sign of 
human life. 

It would be easy, he saw, to reach those possible caves 
by following the neck of high ground running inland 
from the top of his hill. Turning seaward, he shaded his 
eyes with his hands and scanned the horizon. 

No indication of life was visible. No smoke, no mast, 
no sail. 

He swept the small island with another keen critical 
glance. From his knowledge of the South Pacific—in 
which ocean, somewhere, this island must lie—he guessed 
it to be of little or no use for trade, either in copra or 
other exports, in spite of its patches of luxuriant verdure. 


66 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Therefore, probably, it was never visited by the outside 
world! Unless there were habitations in the south, it 
was conceivably uninhabited—-possibly unknown. 

For some moments he stood motionless, facing these 
probabilities. . . . Then with grim face, he turned in 
search of his companion. 

Barbara, her head buried in her arms, did not hear his 
approach. It was with a start of surprise that she found 
herself suddenly lifted bodily, as if she were but a feather¬ 
weight. Feeling again very small and ashamed, she 
would have struggled free, but his grip tightened. 

“Keep still! It’s a rough climb.” He spoke abruptly, 
ever his way in moments of stress. The tears of weak¬ 
ness rose again in her eyes. She closed them, but too 
late to hide what she felt he would despise. She turned 
her face away into his wet shoulder; and he strode along 
in silence. 

Stray rocks lay about the ridge; small shrubs, inter¬ 
spersed with ferns and club mosses, made progress diffi¬ 
cult; but he never paused until they were among the 
tall trees of the palm grove. Then he set the girl upon 
her feet. 

“Where are we going?” she asked. 

“Listen!” he commanded, without answering her 
question. 

From near at hand came the noise of rushing water. 
He turned farther inland, amid tall avenues of bamboo, 
toward the sound, Barbara closely following. Presently 
a pleased exclamation escaped his lips, and he halted. 

From the high ground the river tumbled down, a sheer 
waterfall of dancing crystals splashing from great bould¬ 
ers high up among the forest trees to smaller ones on the 
lower level; thence hurrying and gurgling over little 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


67 


rocks, which encircled small pools of translucent green, 
into a clear, softly-flowing stream some six feet deep. 
This after a time spread out and grew shallow, finally 
disappearing between rustling walls of bamboo canes 
toward the cove where it joined the lagoon. From the 
nature of this deeper stretch of water and the compara¬ 
tive clearing of undergrowth on the banks, Croft judged 
it to be partly the work of man’s hand, not entirely the 
result of nature. But he forbore to suggest this to the 
girl. 

“An excellent place for bathing!” he remarked. “Can 
you swim?” 

“A little,” she replied, with a rush of memories. . . . 
She turned about, looking up wonderingly at the jungle¬ 
like vegetation all around. The avenues of bamboo 
swayed softly in the gentle breeze; that and the falling 
water were the only sounds to be heard, beyond the eter¬ 
nal booming of the distant surf. 

Croft led the way back to the grove, then on to the 
clearing beyond. 

Suddenly Barbara stood still, with a little cry. 

“What’s that?” 

He stopped, looking aside in the direction indicated. 
Stooping swiftly, he lifted a queer bleached object and 
examined it closely. She drew near, glancing curiously 
at the hideous thing. 

“It’s a skull! Isn’t it ?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “and—of the negroid type!” 

She looked up, startled. Until then it had not occurred 
to her to wonder concerning this island. The past with 
its tragedy had expunged all else from her mind. 

He continued to examine the skull, with puzzled brows. 

“There are some curious holes which I can not under- 


68 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


stand/’ he said. “They might have been caused by 
bullets. But it is doubtful if natives would possess 
bullets here.” 

“Do you think there are any here now—any natives?” 

He met the eyes raised in trepidation to his own. “I 
can’t tell, yet. But they are friendly enough to white 
people.” Throwing away the skull, he went on toward 
the open space. 

The apparent caves proved to be moss-covered ruins of 
bamboo huts. Many had fallen into rough heaps upon 
the ground; of others, bits of all remained standing, 
guarding like sentinels the broken portions resting wear¬ 
ily against their base. Lying about, half-hidden in under¬ 
growth, were oddly-shaped household utensils made of 
wood or a rough kind of pottery; also large shells, rude 
cups fashioned from cocoanut-shell, broken spears. 

Croft picked up a primitive basin. This, also, he found 
to be riddled with small holes. . . . 

The scene was desolate, giving the impression of Death, 
of the relentless hand of Time sweeping away to extinc¬ 
tion what once had seemed strong and full of life. 

“It’s quite possible,” he said, “that the whole colony 
which lived here has died out. Populations dwindle very 
much in the Pacific Islands.” 

She gave a little shudder. 

“It’s horrible here—I don’t know why! Let’s go down 
to the shore. There seems to be a hut still standing down 
there.” She pointed toward a small structure half-way 
down the lower slope, sheltered beneath the hill which 
they had climbed. Croft hurried in its direction. 

It consisted of one small room. The bamboo walls 
were intact, but the thatch forming the roof showed large 
rents; on the ground within, amid fusty dead leaves, were 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 69 

scattered utensils similar to those which they had 
already seen. 

Croft glanced round critically, then at the girl, who had 
followed him, then out through the opening seaward. 

“We can make this sufficiently habitable to carry on 
with,” he observed. 

His words went out into silence. They brought in¬ 
stantly a vivid realization of the immediate present to her 
mind, followed quickly by thoughts of the future. A new 
fear shot up, clutching her heart with a horrible, clammy 
hand. She looked with sudden dread at her compan¬ 
ion’s profile; and something about his tense lips seemed 
to confirm the awful foreboding. The faint color revived 
in her cheeks by exercise ebbed away, leaving her white. 
She clenched her teeth and her hands; then, with an ef¬ 
fort, put her dread to the test. 

“We—shall soon be rescued? Ships are certain to— 
call here? It will only mean a few hours—or days?” 

The moment which Croft had dreaded, yet known to be 
inevitable, was at hand; and he felt the utter inadequacy 
of his sex in dealing with delicate situations. Longing 
vainly for Margaret Field, or some other tactful woman, 
he continued, under lowered brows, his lips compressed, 
to gaze at the water sparkling in the sunshine. 

From his prolonged silence Barbara guessed the truth 
of his convictions; words were unnecessary. She clasped 
her hands in agony, uttering a little moaning cry like 
some dumb animal receiving its death-wound. 

Croft turned quickly. He looked down at the quiver¬ 
ing, girlish form, meeting the frightened eyes turned to 
him, trusting in his judgment and resource. And all at 
once he realized that, in this ghastly predicament, her very 
life lay in his hands. 


;o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


A great thrill shook his entire being, accompanied by 
a sense of responsibility glorious and yet fearful: like that 
which a mother must feel when first her child is put into 
her keeping. The eyes she thought inscrutable softened 
with unexpected, wonderful tenderness. He leaned for¬ 
ward and took her clasped hands in both of his. 

“Don’t give up hope,” he said earnestly. “It’s very 
doubtful if ships call; but they may pass this way. We 
will do all we can.” 

She clung to his hands, breathing hard, seeming to 
find the old magnetism of his personality draw her up, 
deriving mental as well as physical support from his 
grip. Her eyes fixed upon his, as if searching for 
help. . . . 

Suddenly, like a plucky ray of sunshine in a stormy 
sky, a faint smile flitted tremulously across her pale 
lips. 

“We must—as you said—buck up,” she whispered, the 
trembling words scarcely audible. 


II 

At mid-day the heat became excessive. Mercilessly 
the sun, like a quivering mass of molten steel, beat 
down upon the shore; no breath of wind stirred the hot 
air; the lagoon, with its almost indigo blue, assumed an 
oily, sluggish appearance, as if sinking to sleep with the 
lowering tide. 

Within the shade of the angle formed by one side of 
the hut and the hill behind, Barbara lay inert upon a 
soft, if simple, couch of sun-dried coats. A vivid spot of 
color showed on either cheek; her head and throat were 
burning. Finding that the ground swayed and rolled 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


7 1 


like a mountainous sea if she endeavored to rise, she 
gave up the attempt, and lay motionless, with closed eyes. 

Near by were some untouched bananas and a broken 
cocoanut, the shell of which was filled with water and 
placed upright between three stones. From within the 
hut came the noise of splitting sticks, as if somebody 
were breaking the bamboo canes which, crossed and inter¬ 
laced, formed its structure. 

The girl listened, wondering dully at the endurance of 
her companion, full of a miserable sense of shame at her 
own weakness. Without pausing for rest, after fetching 
their coats and procuring food, he had begun clearing 
and improving this dreary abode—carrying down broken 
portions from the ruins above for a door, fetching other 
canes and palm-leaves for mending the thatched roof. 

Presently, hot and disheveled, he appeared. He had 
shed all his clothes except breeches and shirt, and looked, 
she thought, strangely in keeping with the scene around 
them. Hard work, and the concentration of a strong 
mind upon present necessities, had lessened for the time 
the mental anguish which she had seen in his face. A 
suppressed excitement seemed to pervade him: his eyes 
gleamed in a way she could not understand. This was 
her first experience of a man whose life had been spent 
chiefly in wild surroundings, often upon but the fringe of 
civilization; whose abundant vitality responded to the 
call of untamed nature in a way that proved he had not 
been shackled by chains of convention closing arpund 
him, fetter by fetter, as the years passed. It needed but 
a few strokes of the hammer to scatter the frail fetters 
which, with him, had ever been insecure. 

“That’s done!” he said briefly. He sat down and pro¬ 
ceeded to peel and eat bananas with considerable relish. 


72 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I feel so useless!” she exclaimed miserably. “Such 
a hindrance instead of a help.” Receiving no encourag¬ 
ing contradiction, she continued, with the excitable 
wretchedness due to racked nerves and rising fever: “It 
would have been wiser to have left me in the water. 
You would get on better alone. We shall only die 
lingering deaths here, if rescue doesn’t come.” 

“Dashed if I mean to die!” he protested, between 
two large mouthfuls of fruit. “Nor shall you!” 

She turned over, fixing unnaturally bright eyes upon 
him. “But life won’t be worth anything here. Just 
you and I—strangers—on a desert island! It’s impos¬ 
sible!” 

He made no reply for a moment, only glancing gravely 
at her feverish face. 

“We shan’t be strangers for long,” he observed. 

Throwing away his banana-skins, he rose and surveyed 
the water; then he came close to her, towering over her, 
as it seemed to her excited fancy. 

“I’m going to try to reach the machine.” 

She started up in alarm. 

“I may be able to rescue our luggage and provisions—” 

“Oh! no, no, no!” she cried wildly. “Suppose you 
get drowned? Never mind luggage! What does that 

matter? Oh! don’t leave me all alone-” Terrified, 

she tried to reach some part of him, to restrain him by 
force. 

He caught her arms, raising her to her feet and sup¬ 
porting her. 

“Listen!” he commanded in a tone which checked her 
agitation. “It’s not only luggage! I want to save the 
wireless transmitting set--” 

“Wireless!” Radiant relief overspread her face. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


73 


“Why—then—we can soon get rescued after all? I 
forgot about that.” 

“You mustn’t rely too much on it. It will be only 
the short range set. The long range used on board 
obtained its electrical energy from a generator run from 
one of the engines, and is therefore useless now.” 

She reflected for a moment. 

“You mean—you don’t think this range will reach 
anybody? How is it worked?” 

“From accumulators, which of course won’t last long. 
There’s a chance of it reaching a ship somewhere. The 
Australian Navy would be certain to search when our 
disappearance became known; but unfortunately we were 
swept so completely away from our route.” 

Her eagerness for this new hope to be tested was still 
modified by fears concerning the risks of his venture. 
He pointed out the shallowness of the water and the 
scattered little coral islands. “The tide’s low enough 
now for me to wade to that one nearest the reef. From 
there it’s quite a short distance, if swimming is necessary.” 

“I will wade with you-” 

“The devil you won’t!” He suddenly wheeled round 
upon her. “Look here! You’re never to go in the 
lagoon! Bathe in the river, but don’t over go in the 
lagoon. Swear to me!” 

She gazed at him in stupefied amazement and anger. 

“Why not? If—if you go in-” 

“I—er—I understand these waters. They’re treacher¬ 
ous. Promise me-” 

“Oh!” she interrupted impatiently, “I don’t want to 
bathe—ever—anywhere! I’ll sit and watch you go.” 

“In this blazing sun? No, indeed! You must lie 
down in the hut and sleep.” 



74 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Vainly she remonstrated, fearing a recurrence of the 
tangible loneliness she had experienced upon the hillside. 
His jaw set in a way she was to know well. With a 
vise-like grip he drew her toward the hut. 

“It’s not safe upon the shore,” he said, when, at the 
entrance, she feebly struggled. 

“Not safe! Why?” 

“Oh!—this tropical sun. You don’t understand it.” 

Rightly or wrongly, he prevaricated for the second 
time. 

The interior was cleared now of rubbish, and a rough 
aperture for window had been made at the end facing 
inland. The shade was cool and welcome. Croft fetched 
the coats and spread them upon the ground. 

“Now,” he said, “stay here until I return.” 

She sank down wearily, without replying. Stooping, 
he took her wrist, feeling for her pulse. 

“You understand? You promise to remain? Or must 
I barricade the door?” 

She pulled her hand away, and let her aching head 
fall back upon the fleece lining of the coat. 

“Oh, don’t bully me!” she protested irritably, trying 
to control the quaver in her voice. “I won’t endure it. 
Please—go.” 

He looked down at her in silence for a moment, his 
brows knit in perplexity. Then he turned and went out, 
setting up the improvised door behind him. 

Lying motionless in the comparative gloom, a prey to 
rising fever, new fears assailed her. She had labeled the 
situation “impossible.” With deeper meaning and the 
distorted views of imagination, her words recurred to her 
now. Shrinking in horror, she faced the fact of her 
isolation. Sundered from all the sure harbors of civiliza- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


75 


tion with this man of uncertain moods—a man whom she 
neither liked nor understood! . . . This—after a life 
spent in the safety of Darbury! 

“A dark horse. You may as well give in at the be¬ 
ginning, for you will eventually. ,, Who had said that? 
. . . Vividly the scene of Mrs. Field’s tennis party rose 
before her, followed by their first unpleasant encounter 
near the lake. Scenes at the fete followed quickly—the 
peculiar, magnetic force which had completely swept her 
away; the banter, often contempt, she had met in his 
regard. . . . Then Miss Davies’ warnings. . . . The 
same baffling encounters during the trip, the same strange 
force, the same contemptuous impatience, the moments 
of keen, almost boyish exuberance, the hours of im¬ 
penetrable reserve. . . . 

A care for her physical welfare had certainly been 
shown to-day. But in everything her will had been 
overpowered, even to the extent of physical force. 

“Impossible”? It was not to be borne! What might 
not happen? . . . The fears, accumulating, grew into 
feverish terror. She struggled to her feet, and hurled 
herself weakly at the door, with some frenzied idea of 
escape. . . . 

The door was barricaded on the outside! 

As a caged beast, half-mad with terror and impotence, 
she staggered up and down the little hut, her brow 
clammy, her clenched hands shaking. . . .With a rush 
of hysterical tears, she flung herself upon the ground. 
“Hugh!” she sobbed, distraught. “Oh, Hughie! 
Hughie!” 

Barbara had been used, in a mild way, to ruling Hugh 
all her life. With his limited range of ideas, his easy 
good-nature had enjoyed following her lead. Now, wave 


76 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


after wave of intense, helpless longing for him broke over 
her heart. Long she lay there, shaken by fear and 
misery, drawing hard, choking breaths after the relief of 
tears was denied her. . . . 

Gradually, worn out, she grew calmer, her mind revert¬ 
ing to old scenes with Hugh in the days before the trou¬ 
blesome “inner self” had risen to shatter her content. If 
he had accompanied them, he—not Croft—might be with 
her now! With the wish she came, as it were, to a full 
stop. Hugh, with his love of every-day things, of home 
comforts and friendly pastimes, would seem as much out 
of place here as amid the rush of city life. Although 
going at once to his country’s aid, he had, she knew, 
loathed his experiences of the war. The wholesome, 
customary setting of a “country gentleman” was Hugh’s 
true sphere. . . . 

These more peaceful reflections served to quiet yet 
more the previous turmoil; gradually she lost conscious¬ 
ness of her surroundings, falling into a troubled, restless 
sleep. . . . 

The sun had moved round behind the hill and the hut 
seemed dark and oppressive when, suddenly, her eyes 
opened. She started up in some alarm. Surely it was 
not night, and Croft still absent? Her heart missed a 
beat, and then hurried on wildly at the thought; she 
turned cold, then feverishly hot. However autocratic 
and distasteful any companionship might become, the 
awfulness of solitude—as for a moment that contingency 
swept across her mind—made it desirable beyond all 
riches. 

She ran to the door. To her surprise, it was no longer 
barricaded. She pushed it open, and drew a breath of 
relief; for outside it was still broad daylight. The sun- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


77 


shine gleamed in bright patches upon the shore, alternat¬ 
ing with long stretches of shadow cast by palms which, 
singly or in small clumps, dotted the bay. The time, she 
judged, must be early evening. If Croft had returned and 
opened the door, where could he be now ? 

Unsteadily she walked to the water’s edge, searching 
with straining eyes the shore and the distant reef, with¬ 
out result. Nameless dread at her heart, she turned to 
ascend the slope toward the palm grove, thinking to get 
from there a clearer view of the wrecked machine. 

The ground was rough: it seemed to rise and push her 
back, then to fall away into yawning gaps at her feet. 
Often she stumbled, sometimes fell, pulling herself up 
again only to stumble blindly once more. At last, pant¬ 
ing, she reached the nearest palm of the grove, and leaned 
against it. The reef swayed before her eyes in a mist; 
she closed them, pressing her hands to her throbbing 
head. . . . 

A movement behind, among the trees, presently caused 
her to look round quickly. It was, unmistakably, a foot¬ 
fall : evidently Croft had returned and come to the river. 
With a sigh of relief, she left the tree and turned inland 
to greet him. . . . 

Then, for a moment, all power seemed to leave her 
body. She stood rooted to the ground, her lips moving 
without uttering a sound, her eyes dilated. 

About ten feet away, a pair of fierce, restless eyes 
gazed upon her, fascinated, from a sooty-black face re¬ 
pulsive by its breadth of nose and thickness of lips. The 
dark, naked form, of medium height and sinewy build, 
glistened as if fresh from the water: the frizzy black 
hair clung damply about the ears and forehead. As he 
stood watching her, like an animal watching its prey, 


78 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


the coarse lips parted in a slow devilish grin. ... With 
a quick stream of unintelligible words, he sprang forward. 

The spell broke. With one shriek of terror, she turned 
and fled madly down the slope. 

The unintelligible muttering ceased. A blood-curdling 
yell like some wild war-cry pierced the still air, echoing 
around the bay . . . quick agile steps sounded close in 
her wake. 

The unearthly strength born of emergency came to 
Barbara. Everything save the distant hut faded from 
her sight; time ceased; coherent thought fled from her. 
Only one instinct reigned—that of the hunted beast to 
reach its lair. That, once there, defense might prove 
equally impossible, she never paused to consider. Over 
stray rocks and undergrowth, shingle and sand, she 
dashed, her heart half suffocating her with its beating, 
her throat so contracted that she could scarcely draw her 
painful breaths. . . . The bare feet drew nearer in their 
hot pursuit; the weird cry again and again resounded 
over the bay. . . . Closer he came: she heard his short 
snorting breathing . . . closer: the warmth of it fanned 
her neck . . . closer yet, and a hand caught roughly at 
the sleeve of her blouse, tearing the soft silk to ribbons 
as she wrenched her arm free . . . closer, and this time 
the sinewy black fingers grabbed the bare arm itself. . . . 

A swift whirling noise smote across her reeling brain; 
something hurtled past her shoulder . . . with a savage 
snarling groan, her captor fell sprawling upon the ground. 

Dazedly she looked around. Springing over crags, 
scrambling through brushwood, Croft came down the hill 
behind the hut at break-neck speed. The native, quickly 
regaining his feet, cast one glance toward the tall white 
figure with blazing eyes, dropping, to his muddled senses, 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


79 


direct from the heavens; then, without a word, he turned 
swiftly and leapt, with extraordinary rapidity, back 
toward the palm grove. 

Her transient strength oozing away, Barbara staggered 
forward. 

Croft caught her by the arms. 

“What the devil made you leave the hut?” he de¬ 
manded angrily. 

All tendency to faint left her. No lash of a whip could 
so have quickened her bewildered brain. She recoiled 
in his grasp, gazing up into his face dumfounded. Amid 
the confusion of her mind his extreme pallor struck her 
forcibly. His eyes pierced her like flaming steel. 

“Hadn’t you enough sense to realize this possibility?” 

Now was the time to assert herself. She hesitated; 
searched vainly for a retort; opened her mouth; closed 
it again. In her weak state circumstances proved too 
overwhelming. Feeling utterly insignificant, she merely 
turned her miserable eyes seaward. 

“I—was only looking—for you,” she murmured un¬ 
steadily. 

Opposition may wear down a man, as a fortress, with 
time; but helplessness silences all guns. He stood, 
breathing hard, still grasping her arm, gazing into her 
face with eyes no longer flashing with anger, but smold¬ 
ering with something she could not define—something 
composed of horror and fear. 

“God!” he muttered at last, in a different tone. “If 
I had been too late!” 

Noticing the red marks upon the soft white skin of the 
arm he held, he pulled her a little closer and examined 
them. 

“Your arm is bruised?” 


8o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Yes,” she replied laconically. “And,” with sudden 
deliberation, “you are making it worse!” 

If she expected apologies she was disappointed. His 
grip loosened; dropped to her hand, and drew it close 
within his arm. For a moment he stood silent, scanning 
the vicinity of the palm grove; perceiving no signs of 
the native, he turned with her toward the hut. 

“I rescued most of the wireless and luggage,” he said, 
turning the subject of her thoughts abruptly. “I brought 
some of our things across, and left the rest on the reef. 
You were asleep. So I took the wireless up the hill, and 
fixed up the aerial.” 

This whirlwind expedition staggered the girl, used to 
Hugh’s leisurely ways. 

“When I woke up and could not see you anywhere-” 

“If you had looked behind the hut you would have 
found the luggage, and could have guessed what I was 
doing,” he remarked. 

Not possessing the nature of a detective, she had pri¬ 
vate doubts upon that score, but forbore to express them. 
Sinking once more upon the coats, she watched him carry 
in their suit-cases and—something else. 

It was the old tin box of Aunt Dolly’s provisions. . . . 
Tears rose to Barbara’s eyes, and her throat contracted; 
but her companion’s presence caused her to wrestle 
valiantly with the grief stirred up afresh by the sight 
of this familiar old box. The little homely things are ever 
those which bring out the full force of loss or tragedy. 
Where mansions and riches fail, a dented little thimble, 
seen often upon a loved one’s finger, will tear at the 
heartstrings of those who find it idle and forgotten— 
pathetic in its proof of death’s ruthless division. 

Hiding weakness from Croft’s eyes, however, was 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


81 


becoming, unconsciously, Barbara’s purpose in life just 
now. Any display of it was, she felt intuitively, abhorrent 
to him. In silence she watched him unfasten the box, 
take out the spirit-lamp, search among the other con¬ 
tents, and abstract a tin of milk. 

“Did you-” she spoke at last, with difficulty, “find 

any—did you see-?” 

“Nobody,” he replied briefly, with an understanding 
for which she was grateful. She closed her aching eyes, 
listening abstractedly to his movements and the hissing 
of the little lamp. Presently he brought some steaming 
milk in a small tin mug. She had often used that mug 
upon picnics with Aunt Dolly; the sight of it caused 
another wave of homesickness and loss. 

“I can’t drink it,” she muttered, turning away. 

“You must,” he replied quietly, seating himself on the 
ground beside her, his countenance inexorable. She took 
no notice. 

“Come along! Don’t be silly, Barbara!” 

Quickly she turned and faced him. 

Then rather too hastily she took the mug; but her 
hands trembled, and the milk splashed over the edge. 
He placed his fingers over hers and guided them; and the 
cool firm touch brought a peculiar sense of calm and 
security. 

“It tasted—queer!” she remarked. 

Rising, he returned to the work of unfastening their 
luggage. 

“Your case is unstrapped,” he said presently. “Will you 
unpack it now?” 

“Oh!—I can’t! Not yet,” she said wearily. 

“Shall I?” 

“No! Oh, dear me, no!” She started up in alarm. 



82 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Well, but—don’t you want things for the night?” 

“No.” 

He looked at her in mute inquiry. 

“You don’t suppose,” she asked with asperity, “I 
shall ever —undress in this place?” 

As he turned away, she saw the same flash of white 
teeth in the dim light that she had seen the first time 
they met. 

“I advise you to change, after such a soaking,” was 
his only remark. He stood near the door, as if uncertain, 
for a few moments, then pushed it open. “I shall have 
my supper outside. . . . Good night!” he added. 

She was conscious of immense relief; for the problem 
of the night had been causing her some private anxiety 
since darkness fell. He had solved it with characteristic 
brevity. 

There was much sense in his advice: her clothes felt 
stiff and heavy. Wearily she opened her suit-case, sur¬ 
prised to find most of the contents dry. She hastily un¬ 
dressed, and slipped into cool fresh garments. Throw¬ 
ing on a loose Japanese dressing-gown, she lay down 
again, exhausted. A strange overpowering heaviness 
enveloped her senses, deadening her limbs, forcing down 
her eyelids. Had a complete tribe of natives been heard 
approaching, she would have been powerless to shake off 
the numbing drowsiness. All fears sank into oblivion. 
. . . She fell into a deep heavy sleep. 

Ill 

The flare of many torches illuminated the midnight 
darkness in the south of the island. Chimabahoi, the 
old chief, sat in the leafy council chamber near the 
entrance of the sacred palm grove, surrounded by his 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


83 


trusted warriors. In the center of the large circle of 
squatting figures stood Babooma—next in rank to the 
chief—recounting, in his muttering, sing-song dialect, the 
strange story which, arousing tragic memories, caused 
consternation and foreboding in every heart. 

When he ceased, Chimabahoi sat silent, pulling his 
beard with wrinkled dark hands that trembled. An 
agitated babel broke out all around, fierce native oaths 
blending with wails of distress. 

The chief at last commanded silence, and spoke. 

“Whence came they, Babooma? Was there no strange 
canoe floating, like a vast island, upon the lagoon ?” 

“There was not, O Chief. The white woman appeared 
in my path as if sprung from the waving palm! The 
white man”—he looked furtively round—“did fall from 
the skies, sending his bolt before him!” He shivered, 
stroking his sore shoulder. “The great white man is a 
giant, O my Chief! His stride is swift as the flight of a 
bird; the flash of his eyes like the lightning which strikes 
our trees! He will not easily be killed.” 

A recurrence of the terror which had sent him speeding 
through the woods without pause made him glance again 
toward the darkness beyond the circle, as though half 
expecting to see some superhuman phenomena appear 
among the waving tree-ferns. 

“How great is the tribe? Didst thou not see others, 
Babooma ?” 

“None other did I stay to see, O Chief! Perchance 
they are evil spirits come to haunt the huts where live 
the ghosts of our slain ones. Or perchance they slay with 
ball-devils like unto those other evil ones.” 

Murmurs of fear and anger rippled round the group: 
the black faces, lit up by the flaring torches, were savage 


8 4 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


in their primitive, untamed emotions. Mingled with the 
fury of revived memories was the superstitious dread of 
the supernatural in which they had been bred. To them 
everything strange, which they could not understand, 
savored of evil powers against which their daily life was 
pitted. This, with the practise of tabu partly consequent 
upon it, constituted their religion. Even the image repre¬ 
senting some benignant deity upon their island needed 
constant propitiation. 

The chief sat in deep thought for some moments; then 
rose and waved his spear. 

“The Vow!” he cried. “Let preparations be made, my 
warriors. When next darkness hides the earth, we will 
fall upon this white tribe, true to the Vow !” 

He had struck the right note to swing the balance in 
favor of anger. Their fear melted into the old longing 
for revenge. An uproar of shouts greeted his words. 

He turned to Babooma. “Before dawn, Babooma, thou 
shalt go with me to the distant shore—thou and Roowa, 
there to learn more of their numbers, and devise the best 
means of attack.” 

A confusion of voices resounded, accompanied by many 
furtive glances into the darkness of the forest; the savage 
joy of revenge was yet tempered with awe. Memories of 
the means of warfare adopted by white men caused them 
to follow their chief in still half-fearful excitement to the 
sacred palm grove. 

Presently the sound of native voices rose once more, 
singing their Song of Hate. 

On the northern shore a cool breeze stirred the plumed 
tops of the palms, wafting the fragrance of the myriad 
plants and trees of the forest in a subtle perfume over the 

bay. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


85 


The man sitting outside the little hut raised his face, 
inhaling the soft scents, grateful for the refreshing wind. 
All night he had sat motionless, head hidden in his hands, 
There was nobody to see, in his haggard features, what 
Barbara had seen that morning. 

It is during the long hours of the night, or in the early 
dawn, between the unconsciousness of sleep and the 
renewal of bodily activities, that troubles assume their 
grimmest aspect—their edges, blunted by familiarity, 
having worn acute again while the mind rests. 

Although his eyes had not closed, this solitary vigil, 
with its forced inaction, had revived and intensified the 
morning’s sufferings. The sense of powerlessness which 
had attacked Barbara with such violence in the afternoon 
now attacked him. For the first time in his life the self- 
confidence, bordering upon arrogance, which had carried 
him from success to success, was shaken; for the first 
time he was confronted with failure—not the failure of 
his own resource; but the failure of a human atom pitted 
against all the overwhelming odds of nature, caught in 
the remorseless wheels of fate. Not only had they 
ground him in their merciless revolutions, dashing him 
aside, bereft of success when it was in his very grasp, 
scattered the labor and ambitions of years to the winds; 
but others, whose lives were temporarily in his keeping, 
had been ground down, too. Again and again he strove 
to turn his thoughts from the wrecked mass out there 
upon the reef; from the dark waters and the monsters 
which infested them, where those friends, strong and full 
of life not many hours ago, now lay hidden. What awful 
fate, worse than mere drowning, had been theirs? . . . 
He strove to restrain his mental agony, dragging his mind 
away, for down that road madness lay. . . There were 


86 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


natives, possibly cannibals, upon this island, to be faced 
sooner or later. Therein, to his mind, lay hope. For 
surely they were in touch with civilization? During his 
travels he had encountered many of a similar type to the 
one who had appeared to-day, and found them more or 
less friendly. He had also picked up a good number of 
dialects employed among Polynesian and Melanesian 
natives. With luck he might find means of rescue 
through their enterprise, if they had any. But this was 
doubtful. He knew well the characteristics of the 
Pacific: knew the trade routes, the ports of call, the fea¬ 
tures of islands in touch with civilization, the features of 
many practically unknown. . . . Intercourse with 
strange natives, too, meant considerable risk, with a 
woman in his care. ... At that thought, the same 
strange thrill shot through his frame which he had expe¬ 
rienced in the morning; the awful loneliness of spirit 
seemed to fall from him. 

Scattering his reflections, a strangled, terrified cry 
came from the hut. He sat up, alert in a moment. All 
had been quiet hitherto. The draught dropped into the 
milk had done its work. He had been fortunate in res¬ 
cuing the case of medicines and first-aid necessities from 
the machine. Again, louder, another cry smote upon his 
ears. He sprang to his feet. . . . 

Reaction had come upon Barbara, awakening from the 
heavy effect of the drug, so vividly that she was almost 
delirious. The little hut seemed to swing round and 
round, now darting suddenly up toward the sky, now 
dropping, as a stone, into limitless space. And ever, 
from the four quarters of the globe, roared what seemed 
like ten thousand trains. ... To escape was impos¬ 
sible, for somebody had barricaded the door . . . the 
hut rushed down now toward the dark fathomless 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


87 


waters . . . they closed above her head, and everywhere 
black hands surrounded her—black leering faces came 
close. ... With a shriek of terror she cowered against 
the wall, when the door opened; then, perceiving freedom, 
she ran blindly toward the starlight without. 

A pair of arms caught her upon the threshold. Half- 
demented, she struggled in their hold, gasping hard sobs. 
But they closed more tightly; and their protective warmth 
shut out the lurking dangers. Gradually she grew 
calmer; the nightmare sensations of returning conscious¬ 
ness abated. Ceasing to struggle, she leaned exhausted 
against him, her arms clinging to one of his, the waves 
of her long hair falling across his breast. 

So for several minutes they remained—two derelict 
beings hurled, helpless pawns, over the boundary line of 
civilized life into a world yet in its infancy—each con¬ 
scious of a sense of comfort in the other’s nearness. 

The stars, peering through, caught a glimpse of the 
man’s eyes, seeing in them a look which no human being 
had ever yet seen there. Only they knew that the hand, 
half-hidden in the girl’s dark hair, trembled a little. 

Presently he straightened himself. With two fingers 
he felt her brow and cheek: they were of little more than 
normal heat. He stroked back the hair clustering over 
her forehead; and she stirred, raising her head. 

“You must lie down again and sleep,” he said, drawing 
her toward the bed of coats. But her grasp tightened 
upon his arm. 

“You are not going—far away? It—it’s like a vault 
in here—full of death-” Her voice rose unnaturally. 

For a moment he hesitated; then, kneeling down, he 
rearranged the tossed coats with his free hand, and drew 
her forcibly down upon them. 

“I won’t leave you at all,” he said hurriedly, but with 



88 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


a decision which obviously relieved her. “It’s not safe— 
for either of us—alone—to-night.” 

Her eyes wandered over his face, in the dim starlight, 
in a dazed manner, while she sank back upon the coats 
with a long sighing breath. 

One hand still clasped in hers, the other arm passed 
under her head for a pillow, he remained upon the ground 
by her side. The turmoil of his own spirit seemed un¬ 
accountably soothed. Though never sleeping, a comfort¬ 
ing drowsy numbness replaced the sharp suffering of 
his mind. . . . 

But when the early light of dawn pierced through the 
aperture, it brought with it the remembrance of a man’s 
hand-clasp, the trust in one honest brown eye, the shade 
in place of the other. . . . The wonderful peace which 
seemed to have descended upon the little hut, lulling his 
mind, filling it, during those hours of close protection and 
companionship, with something exquisitely beautiful, 
albeit incomprehensible, was shattered at one blow. 

He half-withdrew his arm ; then, pausing, bent over the 
sleeping girl and looked long upon the delicate features, 
the sensitive lips and dark lashes. As he looked, an 
unbidden thought flitted across his mind, bringing a slow 
flush into his face. Had another taken indisputable pos¬ 
session ? Had he reached to the very depths of her soul; 
fired all the deepest fibers of her womanhood? . . . 

He drew himself up, gently freeing his hand and arm. 
That question opened vistas down which he refused to 
look. A part of his nature that night had been illumi¬ 
nated as if by many-hued candles; and he felt dazzled, 
strange to himself, almost, for once, afraid. 

He rose with difficulty, his limbs cramped after long 
sitting; stretched his arms; looked down once more upon 
the sleeping form confiding in his protection. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


89 


Croft was a lover of cleanliness, fair play, victory 
always—but victory with honor. Throwing back his 
head in a characteristic way, his eyes still resting upon 
the sleeping face, he smiled. It was the little smile which 
many men knew well, which enemies feared, but which 
those he led had ever loved to see: that smile with him 
meant a challenge, and a challenge presaging 
achievement. 

Noiselessly, he opened the door and went out. Seizing 
two old basins discovered among the rubbish in the hut, 
he strode toward the river. 

Save for the distant surf, no sound was audible. Every 
bird and tree seemed abnormally still; the eastern sky 
showed a faint opal, as if pale gray smoke veiled subtle 
delicacies of mauve and rose. From the palm grove he 
keenly surveyed the bay: it was deserted; the world 
might have been dead. Plunging through the tall bamboo 
he came out upon the deepened stretch of water glimmer¬ 
ing faintly, like moving darkness, below him. Then, 
throwing off his garments, he dived into the shadowy 
ripples, feeling a primitive delight in the cold sting to 
his tired limbs. For a few minutes he swam, with strong 
strokes, up-stream; then, returning, scrambled out, shook 
himself and rolled on the moss to dry, keenly enjoying 
the play of the soft air upon his skin. Afterward, slip¬ 
ping into his shirt and breeches, he filled his basins and 
returned to the grove. 

When he emerged from the bamboo, the sound of 
voices fell upon his ears. Hastily stepping back, he 
waited, listening intently. The voices came nearer, then 
receded toward the seaward outskirts of the palm grove. 
Croft took a few noiseless strides in their direction, soon 
discovering the dark forms of three natives among the 
trees. Soundlessly creeping in their wake, he hid again, 


9 o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


close enough to hear their speech, while they paused at 
the top of the slope. 

He could see now, in the stronger light, that all were 
armed with long spears, two also carrying bows and 
arrows. The third, an old man, wore round his neck a 
large clam-shell disk—emblem of the rank of chief—and 
through his nose-cartilage a dark stone. Rings, probably 
of tortoise-shell, hung from his ears. 

Croft wondered if this were a visit of negotiation, with 
a view to a compact of friendship with visitors to their 
island. He recognized them for members of the huge 
scattered family of Melanesians, or Papuans, which have 
some undoubted connection with the African blacks, and 
are to be found in numberless South Sea islands as well 
as in Melanesia proper. Although their dialect is more 
or less local, there is sufficient similarity to make it fairly 
intelligible to any one accustomed to the variations. 

A few minutes, and Croft’s illusion of a friendly com¬ 
pact was destroyed. Hostility was evident. He soon 
realized that an attack was being organized for the follow¬ 
ing night, though he could not distinguish the plans being 
laid. 

Emboldened by the absence of any sign of their enemy, 
the men remained standing for several minutes, gazing 
down the slope at the solitary hut wherein Barbara lay 
unprotected. At last, after an indistinct colloquy, they 
moved slowly forward in its direction. 

For a moment Croft’s heart seemed to stop beating. 
To expose himself, unarmed, would mean certain death, 
and the consequent abandonment of the girl, whose life 
now rested upon his, to a fate probably far worse. In¬ 
side the hut, if he could but reach it, lay the suit-case con¬ 
taining his revolver. Should he risk all and dash from 
his hiding-place, or-? A sigh of relief escaped his 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


9i 


lips when the men suddenly halted. For what seemed an 
eternity he watched them confer together, evidently 
divided in opinion on the wisdom of their venture. 
When at last they turned and made off toward the south 
of the island, he found his clenched hands were shaking 
and his brow was wet. With a half-laugh, he rubbed off 
the perspiration, wondering vaguely why the mere sense 
of protection should have roused so unusual an emotion, 
so deadly a fear, during but a few minutes of uncertainty. 
Danger did not usually have such an effect. Then he 
hurried down to the hut, where he found a white-faced 
girl ineffectually barricading the door with suit-cases. 

She uttered a welcoming cry on his appearance at the 
window. 

“How did you escape? Where were you? What can 
we do?” 

To his own amazement perhaps as much as hers, he 
laughed—almost happily. 

“They have gone away,” he replied. “We can't do 
anything at present.” 

She gazed at him in some bewilderment, knowing 
nothing of the reaction which had caused that strange 
light in his face; and he laughed again, boyishly; then 
leaned farther in for a closer inspection of the blue-clad 
figure with its cloud of hair. 

“You are better?” he asked. 

The paleness’of her cheeks changed suddenly to red 
under his scrutiny. 

“I—I'm all right,” she muttered, turning away. 

“I will go back for the water,” he remarked; and his 
face disappeared from the aperture. 

Barbara’s mind was uncomfortably confused. Safe 
in some refuge, she had seemed to be sleeping for hours. 
When she awoke she instinctively sought for a hand 


92 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


which proved not to be there. Throughout the terrified 
moments that ensued, vague impressions of some mid¬ 
night event chased elusively through her brain. They were 
intensified by Croft’s appearance. Vainly she tried to 
capture the threads; to separate the real from the chaos 
of delirium. All was confusion, jumbled repetitions of 
accumulated horrors. She caught first at one thread; 
then lost it and caught at another. But ever at one point 
her cheeks burned. How much was true? Surely 

not-. The more she thought, the more convinced did 

she become of its incredible reality. . . . How could 
she face her companion? He alone could place the un¬ 
raveled threads in her hands. But how to make him do 
so ? How- 

So engrossed were her thoughts that she started vio¬ 
lently at the sound of his voice again at the window. 

“Your nerves are awfully weak,” he remarked. 

“They are not!” she snapped indignantly. Was she 
always to feel foolish and, above all, appear so, with 
this man? 

Opening the door, she took in one of the basins, without 
looking up. He drew out his own suit-case. 

“I’m going to shave, outside.” 

“Shave?” Had he suggested drowning she would have 
been less astonished, in the circumstances. 

“Yes. Why not? I’m not partial to a beard.” 

She gave a fleeting glance at his chin with the growth 
of forty-eight hours’ scrub, then at the bedraggled band¬ 
age round his head. 

“Yes,” he said again. “You must attend to that pres¬ 
ently. But let s have breakfast first. Get it ready when 
you have finished washing.” 

Feeling like some paid “help” receiving orders, she 
withdrew into the hut. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


93 


A scented steaming bath could not have been more 
welcome than that little basin of cold water. The fresh¬ 
ness invigorated her, reviving a girlish interest in appear¬ 
ances. Unpacking a tiny traveling mirror, she proceeded 
to do up her hair, dressing in one of the cool washing 
frocks intended for Australia. 

Croft was thumping on the hut, demanding breakfast, 
before the completion of this toilet. His quick glance 
took in her dainty and very civilized appearance down 
to the gray suede shoes; but he made no comment. 

Again the contents of the old tin box proved invalu¬ 
able, with the addition of bananas and cocoanut. They 
spread their store upon the ground outside, in the early 
morning sunshine. 

“We must go slow with these things,” he remarked, 
mixing a second mugful of cafe-au-lait from one of Aunt 
Dolly’s tins, “and live upon the fruits of the earth. Can 
you cook?” 

“I cooked at a Red Cross hospital during the war.” 

“Good! From what I have seen of the island, there 
will be plenty of fruit, birds and fish. Things might be 
worse.” 

From her expression, this was doubtful. Conversa¬ 
tion languished. Croft seemed abstracted, deep in 
thought. Her riddle of the night lay unsolved. 

After several furtive glances at his face, she made a 
plunge. 

“I want to know-” 

“Yes? what?” Quickly his eyes searched her own, 
causing her to lower them confusedly. 

“I can’t remember what happened—I’m afraid I—did 
I behave rather stupidly, last night?” 

He stretched out his hand for a banana, peeling it with 
irritating deliberation before replying. 




94 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

“You were, naturally, slightly unhinged after all your 
experiences.” 

This guarded reply was unsatisfactory. 

“But I’m afraid I—what really happened?” 

“Nothing to bother about.” 

She felt exasperated. Looking across at him, she 
fancied the suspicion of a smile hovered around his lips. 

“You realize, of course, that anything I did—or said— 
was because—I mean, it was not my normal state!” 

“Oh, I quite realize that!” His tone caused her to 
look up quickly again. 

“Why are you laughing?” she asked uneasily. 

“Why are you so afraid?” he retorted. 

Nonplussed, she took refuge in a dignified silence. 
Finishing her breakfast, she looked round the bay—at 
the rugged hill beside them, the palms and dense forest 
trees in the background, the coral shingle and white 
sand stretching down to the magnificent blue of the la¬ 
goon, in the distance the reef and vast stretch of limitless 
sea: the intensely vivid colors and contrast shone in the 
sunlight with extraordinary brilliance. 

“It’s all very beautiful,” she said at last, conversation¬ 
ally. 

“It is!” he agreed warmly, rising to his feet. Bring¬ 
ing his mug filled with water, he sat down close beside 
her. 

“Now, please mend my head.” 

This slight wound, it must be confessed, was receiving 
far more consideration by its owner than many far worse 
received during the war. The touch of her light fingers 
about his head was an exquisite novelty. He sat with 
a docile patience which would have astonished past nurses 
who had been reduced to exasperation. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 95 

Barbara was concerned over his pallor and the lines 
surrounding his eyes. 

“You look worn out!” she exclaimed involuntarily. 
“Didn’t you sleep well last night?” 

“Not a wink!” He glanced quickly up at her. 
Whereupon her unraveled confusion returned fourfold; 
and she finished her job in silence. 

“I’m going up the hill to the wireless,” he observed 
then. “You need not fear the natives. They won’t 
return until they have mustered their numbers.” 

At her look of alarm he continued hurriedly: “I’ve 
got a scheme for scaring them off altogether. I shan’t 
be long away. If you shout, I shall hear.” 

There was no suggestion of her company being re¬ 
quired. She watched him disappear, with a sickening 
sense of the oppressive loneliness that she dreaded; but 
pride forbade her uttering a word to detain him. When 
he was out of sight, she looked drearily round the bay, 
the distractions of the morning ceasing to occupy her 
mind. Then, with unconscious imitation of Croft, she 
threw her head a little back; clenched her hands; and 
entered the hut. . . . 

While the natives hurried to the south, to prepare for 
battle, the man sat on the ground beside the transmitter, 
staring out to sea, his brain working on the scheme to 
which he had just alluded; his mind torn between con¬ 
flicting decisions. Twice he turned, preparatory to send¬ 
ing out messages; and twice he refrained. In this pre¬ 
dicament, at the mercy of a tribe of hostile savages, there 
were but two forlorn hopes of defense. One lay in the 
little weapon down in the hut, with its limited supply 
of ammunition; the other in the inherent superstition of 
the islanders. If once the latter could be roused; if his 


9 6 


■ SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ruse, for all its wildness, succeeded, their lives might yet 
be safe. On the other hand, wireless messages might 
reach a ship in time. There was not enough electrical 
energy for both purposes. . . . Which should it be? 

“My God!” he muttered to himself. “Was ever a 
man in such a damned position ?” 

IV 

No better tonic could have been given to Croft’s 
mind than this necessity for immediate action. Until he 
had made his decision and the details were matured, he 
forbore to alarm Barbara with the prospect before them. 

For about two hours he was absent. Then a spiral 
of gray smoke ascended from the hilltop, and he appeared 
with his arms full of wire. 

“I have left a beacon burning, in case a passing ves¬ 
sel-” Abruptly he ceased, standing still, his eyes upon 

the figure emerging from the hut. 

“A transformation!” he exclaimed; and there was a 
strange new tone in his voice. 

The dainty shoes and stockings had been discarded, 
the hairpins thrown away. With a long thick plait 
swinging down her back, sleeves rolled up, bare feet 
sinking in the sand, she flashed him a shy look of inquiry. 

“It seems more natural—here,” she said. 

Thus did Barbara take the first step from out the net 
of lifelong conventions, and tread the free spaciousness 
beyond. It was a significant turning-point in her exist¬ 
ence; therefore happened unconsciously. For it is seldom, 
in the seemingly trivial events of a day, that one recog¬ 
nizes a sign-post stretching arms of direction down 
unexpected roads, which may dwindle to mere tracks 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


97 


ending in stagnant pools, or broaden into wide thorough¬ 
fares leading up to undreamed-of heights. 

“You fit in so well—as if it is your natural sphere!” 
she added. 

He smiled half to himself. Laying his burden upon the 
ground, he noticed some white lacy objects fluttering 
upon a rock close by. 

“What’s this?” he asked curiously, fingering one. 
“How pretty! Is this what you call a-” 

“Camisole. It’s mine,” she said, grabbing it. 

“I didn’t mistake it for mine,” he observed dryly. 

She sat down upon the white objects, like a hen upon 
its chickens, tucking them under her. “Some of the 
things in my case got wet,” she explained. “I was dry¬ 
ing them in the sun.” With an adroit movement, she 
twisted round, gathered them up in one heap, and van¬ 
ished into the hut. 

Amusement softening the lines of weariness on his face, 
he sat on the vacated rock. When she reappeared, he 
patted the spare seat beside him. Rather wonderingly 
she approached, looking, he thought with compunction, 
extremely young and delicately made. To inform a sen¬ 
sitive girl of the forthcoming attack of possible cannibals 
was, to Croft, ten times more formidable than meeting 
them single-handed. He was not versed in the handling 
of these situations. Perhaps, with the peculiar influence 
his personality exercised upon her, physically as well as 
mentally, he acted in the best way possible. 

Taking her hand, he drew her down close beside him; 
then, in a few curt sentences, he told her. 

The fingers he held closed convulsively upon his own; 
her free hand clenched itself upon her knee; the faint 
color drained away, leaving her face quite white. 


98 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Can’t we go—hide somewhere—on the reef?” she 
urged, turning dark eyes of fear upon him. 

He shook his head. Very thoughtfully, from every 
point of view, had he considered the position. To begin 
with, he had no idea of the size of the tribe. And should 
they, by hiding, elude the natives to-night, it would be 
but a respite. The same danger would surround them 
every moment they spent here; they could never know 
peace or safety. For some reason these natives were 
hostile: something must be done to overcome their hos¬ 
tility. Until and unless a friendly compact could be 
made, they must be forced to leave the two white people 
alone, through fear. All this he explained to the girl, who 
recognized the wisdom of it, as well as what she deemed 
the impossibility. 

“Two! Against, possibly, hundreds! How can we 
make them fear us?” she asked hopelessly. 

“Through their superstition,” he replied promptly. 
“Once make them believe we deal with the supernatural, 
or possess magical powers, and they will make us tabu. 
The dread of death or disease from violating a tabu will 
cause them to shun us like lepers.” 

Barbara, inexperienced in natives’ ways, was only half 
convinced. It seemed too childish to be credible, in men 
so fierce of aspect. She listened incredulously to the 
scheme he propounded, her knowledge of electricity being 
limited. 

“I will get some sticks,” he concluded, rising; “and 
place everything in readiness; then I shall turn in for a 
bit. This afternoon we’ll strengthen the walls of the hut; 
and I’ll put up a partition. Then we shall each have a 
room until we can build another hut. Plenty of work 
before us, if rescue doesn’t come soon!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


99 


“Yes,” she replied disinterestedly. Being convinced 
of death lurking at their elbow, ready to approach with 
the darkness, plans for the future seemed superfluous. 
Silently, she helped to collect sticks, an extraordinary 
numbness pervading her mind. Croft’s spirits rose. He 
had faced and eluded death too often to fear it. His 
confidence in this simple ruse puzzled her. 

Collecting the rubber shock absorber belonging to the 
wireless outfit, he broke the sticks into short stakes, 
showing Barbara how to cover them. This done, he 
proceeded to fix them firmly in the ground round the 
hut, then attached the aerial to the top of each: thus form¬ 
ing a wire circle a few inches above the ground, as far 
from the hut as the amount of aerial permitted. The two 
ends were carried through the entrance and connected to 
the transmitter within. 

“Now!” he exclaimed, “when I wave, press the key 
on the transmitter here, and watch the result.” 

He went out to the wire; and, kneeling down, placed 
one hand about half-an-inch above it. Raising the other, 
he gave the signal. 

She pressed the key as directed. Immediately, a series 
of bright blue sparks flashed, like fireflies, from the wire 
to his hand, which he repeatedly jerked away; then, 
delighted with its success, he returned to her. 

“You see,” he explained, “the volume of current is 
always large with wireless, therefore takes effect by 
sparking at the moment of contact. The human body 
is, of course, a conductor. If you gingerly pat the wire, 
the sparking effect is increased; if, on the other hand, 
you hold on to it, the sparking ceases, but the current 
runs through you to earth. In either case, therefore, our 
visitors will get the shock of their lives—especially as 


IOO 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


they usually approach any object of attack by waddling 
along on their stomachs!” 

He chuckled with the anticipatory enjoyment of a 
schoolboy over a practical joke; then suggested having 
some food. 

Mechanically she fetched Aunt Dolly’s box and drew 
out tins of beef and coffee, heroically trying to share 
in his confidence. 

“To-morrow,” he said, watching her closely, “when 
these fellows are settled, we must make a raid for food. 
You must learn to cook breadfruit, Barbara, and taro 
if there is any here. I will show you how to make po{, 
which the natives of Hawaii eat.” 

“What’s that?” 

“A kind of paste made from fish and the root of taro” 

He talked on, compelling her to attend, diverting her 
thoughts until the meal ended, covertly watching her 
every expression. Then he drew her within the hut, to rest. 

“I can’t sleep,” she objected, faltering a little. 

“I can—for hours!” he replied cheerfully. “At any 
rate, you must stay inside, out of the heat.” 

Mechanically again, she entered, going to the little 
window and looking out, drearily, toward the palms. He 
fixed up the door, then came over to her. 

“You don’t feel at all nervous?” he asked nonchalantly. 

She turned, with a forced smile. 

“Oh, no! . . . Dear me, no! ... Of course not,” she 
answered, with terrific emphasis. 

His lips twitched ever so slightly. 

“That’s all right! You’re a plucky soul for a girl!” 

She flashed an indignant look at him, which, in spite of 
herself, faded as she met the unexpected laughter in 
his eyes. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


IOI 


“You wanted adventure !” he reminded her. “You 
wanted to ‘feel life/ to learn the ‘meaning’ of things, 
to sound the ‘deep chords/ Well! You have your 
heart’s desire—at the very bedrock of nature! Seize it, 
Barbara! Drink to the very dregs! Then tell me if 
you have discovered what—is missing.” 

Surprised, she listened silently. He turned away, 
laid one of their coats just inside the door, and threw 
himself down upon it. Within a few minutes he was 
sleeping the sleep of sheer exhaustion. 

But the girl sat for long under the little window, 
lost in thought, wondering over his words. And ever 
her mind reverted to one sentence. A few words of 
praise from one whose opinion you have unconsciously 
learned to respect, and what a world of courage do they 
bring in their train! 

There are no pleasant hours of twilight in the tropics. 
The sun sets, and soon the world is wrapped in darkness. 
It had disappeared behind the west hill, and already a 
few stars were showing in the swiftly darkening sky, 
when Croft came out of the hut to where Barbara was 
collecting the remains of their supper. He carried some¬ 
thing in his hands. 

“Do you understand a revolver?” he inquired. 

She turned round, mingled fear and relief in her face. 
“Have you one? No; I have never fired one in my life; 
I wouldn’t dare! Why didn’t you tell me you had one?” 

“Well—I wouldn’t use it save to frighten them, except 
in a last extremity; these fellows don’t understand gun¬ 
powder.” 

She glanced up in quick appreciation of a sporting 
sense of fair play. 


102 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“But what about the holes in the skull? You don’t 
think they do, by any chance, use firearms?” 

“No; or they would have been armed with them this 
morning. They poison their weapons by thrusting the 
points into decomposing bodies, I expect. It is possible 
that other white people have been here some time; we 
must find that out. . . . But I want to show you how 
to use this little beast, in case anything goes wrong and 
you are left-” 

She laughed, miserably. 

“If they manage to kill you, they will soon finish me 
off!” 

He regarded her in silence, for a moment. 

“They wouldn’t kill you,” he said quietly. “Do you 
understand my meaning?” 

Her face went very white. For a few minutes she 
paced up and down, hands clenched, facing this new 
terror, striving to control herself before this man whose 
very look discouraged weakness. The coolness of his 
bearing, as he stood playing with the weapon in his hands, 
calmed her, bracing her to a simulation of the same 
fearlessness. 

“Show me,” she said, going to him. 

Quietly, as if explaining the mechanism of a watch, 
he explained how it worked. 

“I will load it, and fix it ready for use,” he concluded. 

And the girl who, in England, had shrunk from all 
firearms, took the little weapon from him eagerly, wel¬ 
coming it as a valued friend bringing, possibly, the great¬ 
est succor of all. . . . 

Their previous dangers had been thrust upon them with 
the suddenness of a thunderbolt: there had been no 
torture of passive anticipation. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


103 


As they sat in the dark hut, upon their upturned suit¬ 
cases, near the window-aperture, the strain upon Bar¬ 
bara’s nerves became almost unbearable. Her imagina¬ 
tion ran riot, painting the coming scene in lurid colors. 
With every minute her faith in the electric ruse, never 
strong, grew weaker; until it ebbed away, leaving only 
a ghastly death, or worse, creeping nearer with the rising 
of every star. . . . She faced the moment when, her 
companion slain, she would seize the revolver, turn the 
dark muzzle to her fluttering heart, place her finger on 
the trigger. . . . She might fail! Wounded, helpless, 
she would feel the clutch of dark sinewy hands. . . . 
Feverishly starting forward, she dragged her mind away 
to thoughts of other things: clung in desperation to 
remembrance of Hugh. Old scenes of their childhood 
rose before her—their games together, their rides, his 
bright kindliness and never-failing good-nature, his 
hatred of discomfort. She could but acknowledge to 
her inmost heart—where the truth alone finds admit¬ 
tance—that his presence, much as she longed for it, would 
not have inspired the confidence she needed at the mo¬ 
ment. Hugh’s courage was all right; but his appetite 
for adventures was small, and his initiative powers were 
no greater. 

That realization gave her an uncomfortable stab of 
compunction, opening up avenues of reflections down 
which she hesitated to look. . . . Her mind returned, 
with added dread, to that which faced her—nearer now. 
. . . She clasped and unclasped her clammy hands, sit¬ 
ting upright; then crouching back against the bamboo. 
. . . Only fear of disgrace in her companion’s opinion 
restrained her wild impulse to rise and flee somewhere— 
anywhere—to escape this fearful ordeal. Had Croft 


104 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


touched her or spoken, her control would have snapped 
altogether. But he sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed upon 
the dark slope down which their enemies would come, his 
mind apparently oblivious to all else. 

The silence was deathly. Not a breath of air stirred 
the tops of the palms; scarcely a sound came from the 
smooth surface of the water. ... It became intolerable, 
almost tangible. She longed madly to break it, but dared 
not. . . . Appealingly, she fixed her eyes on her com¬ 
panion’s dim profile, marveling at his perfect composure, 
noting the air of courage and vitality in every fiber of 
his frame. ... As she watched him, her fevered brain 
seemed gradually to grow calm, her faith in his confi¬ 
dence and ingenuity to strengthen. . . . The strain re¬ 
laxed. Hope struggled feebly within her heart. She no 
longer felt the wild desire to scream or to escape. Her 
clenched hands parted, and she sat back with a sigh. 

“That’s all right!” Croft’s gaze came down unex¬ 
pectedly from the horizon to her face in the dim starlight. 

“What d’you mean?” she whispered back. 

He leaned toward her, and she felt his hand within 
her arm. “Come closer. You had a rotten attack of 
nerve-sickness, didn’t you? These boxes lack the com¬ 
fort of armchairs. Lean against me—that’s better.” 

Quite naturally, she obeyed. As she felt her arm close 
in his, his shoulder brushing her cheek, a sense of com¬ 
parative safety seemed to envelop her: all at once she 
felt very tired. 

Those who, from lack of imagination and its sense 
of fear, face a terrible ordeal with gallantry, are justly 
called brave; but those who, tortured by these possessions, 
foreseeing all with shrinking dread, yet meet it with no 
outward flinch, deserve the laurels of heroism. Some 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 105 

such thoughts flitted through Croft’s mind, as he sat 
waiting, fully conscious of the suffering silently en¬ 
dured by his companion. When she relaxed against his 
shoulder, he drew a breath of relief. . . . 

What seemed like hours passed in the silence and dark¬ 
ness. Then Barbara suddenly raised her head. 

‘'Have I been asleep?” she whispered, in astonishment. 

He turned to answer, whipping suddenly back to the 
aperture, and craning forward. A sound had reached 
his intent ears—the faint distant crepitation of snapping 
twigs. 

Now that the dreaded moment had arrived, Barbara 
was conscious of an utter lack of agitation. Save that 
her fingers closed upon his arm, she gave no sign: her 
eyes followed his, peering into the starlit dusk without. 

For several minutes nothing more was heard. The 
girl was beginning to think it had been a false alarm, 
when all at once a slight rubbing noise reached them, as 
of something wriggling over rough ground. At the same 
instant a dark form was dimly discernible flitting, 
shadow-like, from a distant tree to the shelter of a large 
rock, there falling to the earth. Presently, from behind 
this rock, issued a little, snaky, black stream—three or 
four bodies waddling along on their fronts, their outline 
faintly distinguishable. 

Minutely sweeping the whole visible horizon with his 
keen eyes, Croft now perceived other black streams, 
issuing from other temporary shelters, slowly trickling 
down the slope. . . . He leaned back. 

“They are crawling along upon their stomachs, as I 
predicted, to avoid detection,” he whispered. 

She also leaned forward, watching the black streams 
converge, gradually merging into one which rolled on- 


io6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ward like a dark tide, heaving and subsiding as the waves 
of a midnight sea. Soon it came sufficiently near for 
separate forms to be distinguished. The starlight feebly 
illuminated the white sharks’ teeth in the crossed wooden 
swords which some carried, glimmering faintly among 
the chains of shells and stones decking the arms and 
necks of others. 

Presently, two or three figures detached themselves 
from this moving mass and wriggled forward with in¬ 
credible swiftness, leaving the remainder some yards 
behind. 

‘'Scouts!” whispered Croft. 

Barbara caught her breath sharply, drawing back into 
the hut. 

Croft, his eyes fixed upon the advancing figures, laid 
his hand upon the transmitter, with forefinger out¬ 
stretched toward the little key upon which so much 
depended. No sign of the wire encircling the hut was 
visible in the comparative gloom. 

A few tense moments . . . then he pressed the key, 
keeping it down, giving the spark-gap a slight adjust¬ 
ment. 

A few more snake-like undulations . . . the silence of 
the night was rent by a hideous yell of pain and terror. 
. . . Another followed, then another, in quick succession, 
blood-curdling in their ferocity. The advancing forms 
leapt like lightning to their feet. Dropping their spears, 
without pausing to investigate this phenomenon, they 
fled madly back to the main party, rubbing their chests, 
stomachs, or arms, babbling incoherently. 

Croft released the key, and sat back. 

“Couldn’t have been better!” he whispered exultingly. 
“Look! they are having a pow-wow.” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


107 


The small army had halted, huddled together, still 
lying close to the ground; and it was evident that a con¬ 
sultation was in progress. After a short time, encour¬ 
aged probably by the silence in the hut, another plan of 
attack was apparently decided upon. 

Quickly and silently, the little rivers divided again, 
one advancing toward the east of the hut, one toward 
the west, evidently with the intention of surrounding it. 
As all was carried out by means of the same wriggling 
tactics, this took considerable time. 

Croft was soon satisfied that the numbers were small, 
the encircling lines being only one or two deep. Groping 
through the entrance of the bamboo partition, erected 
that afternoon, he watched from the doorway that part 
of the circle form up. Satisfied that it was at an even 
distance from the hut, and, therefore, the wire, he re- 
turned to his post. 

At some invisible signal, the members of the black 
circle started, as one man, to waddle forward, before 
making their usual wild dash when close to their prey. 

Croft bided his time, until they were within a few 
feet of the wire. Then, again, he pressed the key and 
waited. . . . 

Barbara, beside him, closed her hand over the revolver, 
deadly calm. 

They had not long to wait. 

From the seaward end of the hut, the same blood¬ 
curdling cry of terror suddenly smote upon their ears. 
It was quickly repeated from the eastern side. . . . Then, 
from all around, rose a deafening medley of howls and 
frenzied yells, partly of pain but more often of fear, 
as the advancing men came in contact with the wire, 
seeing the wicked blue sparks hiss at their bare flesh, 


io8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


feeling the sharp sting of the electricity. Those who 
escaped it were equally terrified, and the whole order 
broke up. Some rolled upon the ground rubbing them¬ 
selves, still howling; others fled, screaming, toward the 
south. A few, braver, tried again to reach their goal; 
and again retreated, half petrified with fear of the un¬ 
natural. 

Croft waited until but a few stragglers remained near 
the hut. 

“Now,” he cried, “we must show ourselves, and com¬ 
plete the illusion!” 

“Oh!” remonstrated Barbara, “is that necessary?” 

“Yes; if it’s to be a success.” 

Seizing her arm, he dragged upon the door,, and 
whirled her round to the landward-end. 

Those natives who remained uttered loud, fearful 
shouts, at sight of the two white figures; falling upon 
their faces, they stretched out arms of supplication, 
gabbling what seemed to Barbara unintelligible nonsense. 
Those fleeing turned, halted, then likewise fell upon their 
faces, terrified at these apparitions in the starlight. 

For a moment the girl thought her companion had lost 
his senses. Loosing her arm, he sprang forward with a 
bound, his arms wildly waving. Appearing unnaturally 
tall, his white shirt and bandaged head increasing the 
supernatural effect in eyes used only to a dark naked 
skin, he went through a pantomime of weird gestures. 
Now and then this was interspersed with extraordinary 
utterances snarled from between gleaming teeth and 
cruel, drawn-back lips. The wild awful fury, seeming 
to emanate from every pore, terrified her: he looked every 
inch a savage himself. His weird babble bore strong 
resemblance to that of her pursuer. Apparently the 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


109 


prostrate natives understood at least part of the dis¬ 
course ; for occasionally eager hands were raised in sup¬ 
plication, accompanied by cries or moaning replies. . . . 

The scene was the strangest ever witnessed by a con¬ 
ventionally-reared English girl. That one man could so 
influence an overwhelming force of armed savages, and 
look so devilishly inhuman, she would never have believed 
possible. 

Suddenly, as if at some command, the groveling 
wretches scrambled to their feet. With another torrent 
of wild words, he wheeled round, and, to her amazement, 
threw his arms around her, pressing her close. . . . What 
seemed, in the excitement of the moment, like a cloud 
of smoke, together with a sharp explosion, momentarily 
dazed her senses. . . . 

She felt herself lifted bodily, whirled back again round 
the hut and in at the entrance; while, from without, arose 
a fresh confusion of howling cries, with the tread of 
running feet, as the warriors, terrified by the magnified 
effect of the revolver-shot in the dusk, dashed for their 
lives away up the slope. . . . 

Once inside, he leaned back against the bamboo, still 
holding her close, his breath coming fast, every nerve 
tingling, primitive man among primitive men, after the 
savage state into which he had worked himself. 

“Well done!” he panted, laughing wildly. “The 
revolver—just then—was an inspiration! Vanishing in 
a puff of smoke finished the trick!” 

Barbara gasped, too much astonished to realize that 
she was still clasped in his arms, having forgotten the 
existence of the revolver during the last scene. It hung 
from her hand, still smoking a little from its accidental 
discharge. 


no 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“W-what—were—you doing ?” she stammered. 

Again he laughed wildly. “Telling them we were 
sent here by their gods, and should blast the island into 
a thousand bits if they showed us hostility! You saw 
the effect ?” 

“I did, indeed!” Realizing their position, she tried to 
free herself, but his arms tightened. 

“Among natives,” he continued, excitedly, “a wife is 
tabu to her husband. To—to make you doubly safe, I 
told them you were my—my wife.” 

“Your -” Words failed her. More vehemently she 

struggled, suddenly afraid of him, of his savage grip, 
and of the eyes which glittered strangely in the semi¬ 
darkness. 

But ordinary shackles of restraint had fallen from 
Croft for the moment. Since those wonderful hours of 
the night before, the girl had assumed a new prominence 
in his mind. He had become acutely aware of her, as 
he had never yet been aware of any woman. It was all 
strange, bewildering. His senses had been stirred, 
primitive emotions inflamed by the crowded events of 
the past hours: the savage, hidden in every human being, 
set free, by force of circumstances, to grapple with the 
savage always free among the men whom he had to 
subordinate. Life or death, man and woman, savage, 
primitive passions pitted against savage, primitive pas¬ 
sions. ... No drawing-room code of morals or manners 
was guiding their destinies out here. 

He laughed again, pressing her fiercely up against his 
chest. “So—while we are here, you are mine! Don’t 
forget. You may belong to another in England; but 
here, you—you are mine!” 

His tone was exultant, and he bent her backward so 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


hi 


that her face was upturned, unprotected beneath his own. 
His breath came hot and fast above her lips. 

Some primeval, caged-beast instinct seized her, too, 
sweeping away fear. Raising her free hand, she dealt 
him, with sudden passion of rage, a blow in the face while 
struggling violently in his grasp. 

His arms loosed her so abruptly that she nearly fell. 
For a moment he stood before her, his hands groping 
at his head, looking dazed, or as if awakening after some 
vivid dream. She confronted him with the fury of a 
little wildcat. 

“You are mad! Mad! I—oh—I hate you !” 

Covering her face with both hands, she strove to subdue 
the extraordinary tumult within her . . . then looked 
up at the sound of the door being hastily shut with a 
crash of bamboo canes. 

With a gasp of relief, she realized that she was alone. 
V 

After those two days and nights, crowded with such 
tense emotions and desperate hazards, with death 
lurking round the corner, it seemed to Barbara that she 
had lived upon the island for months. The tragedy 
resulting in their arrival became less poignant, more 
remote. The immediate present and possible future, with 
almost frantic desire for rescue, occupied her mind, 
together with an enhanced, purely physical exhilaration 
in being yet alive. 

After the natives’ attack, a new phase began between 
the pair. Paradoxical though it may sound, the hours 
which brought them so near together widened the gulf 
between them. Had that eventful night ended with the 
accidental discharge of the revolver, their daily life might 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


112 

have continued more or less placidly, like the waters of 
some river, with but an occasional rock obstructing its 
even course. But Croft’s amazing lack of self-control 
had been like a huge stone hurled violently into the cen¬ 
ter of the river, causing ever-widening circles to extend. 
Intensified a hundredfold, all the fears of her first after¬ 
noon upon the island rushed riotously back. She became 
conscious of him as she had never been before: not only 
of the force of his will, but of the strength of the passions 
lying dormant under a cold exterior. All Miss Davies’ 
hints and warnings returned to her mind. She became 
uncomfortably aware that there might be truth in them; 
and this reflection produced a bleak sense of desolation, 
of lack of protection, which turned her cold. 

Nothing more had been said concerning the episode. 
Half expecting some kind of apology, she had decided, 
next morning, to accept it frigidly, drawing close the 
cloak of her own reserve and dignity. 

But the apology never came. He did not appear at 
all until nearly midday, when he arrived with arms full 
of fresh fruit. Then it was he who seemed encased in a 
mantle of such icy reserve that her own attempts dwindled 
to mere foolishness. She took refuge in silence. A stone 
wall and ten miles of land might have divided them. He 
spent the afternoon fetching things over from the reef, 
leaving her severely alone. 

It was not until the evening that a small chink showed 
in this mutually-erected wall. She sat listlessly watching 
the birds flitting across the bay; while Croft, just outside 
the hut, rummaged among the contents of a newly- 
salved box, scattering ties and collars broadcast. Sud¬ 
denly he paused. 

“By jove!” he exclaimed. . . . ‘Thank God!” he 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


1 13 

added, so fervently that she turned quickly, hope, for she 
knew not what, shooting across her heart. 

“A tin of tobacco!” Exultantly he waved it aloft. 

“Oh!” Mingled disappointment, annoyance and im¬ 
patience in her tone, she sank back. 

“You don’t smoke?” he inquired politely. 

“Cigarettes—sometimes.” A vivid memory of Hugh 
with his perpetual cigarette, and of their clandestine 
smokes together from childhood, stabbed her with sudden 
intolerable pain. She rolled over, hiding her face in her 
arms. “Don’t—remind me!” she muttered brokenly. 

He looked down at the crumpled figure, his brows knit, 
mute pain in the eyes which had seemed so stony all day, 
his lips tightly pressed together; then he turned away 
abruptly and opened his precious discovery. . . . But 
no familiar aroma of tobacco arose near the hut that 
evening to increase the torture of her mind. Instead, he 
vanished again, after a strained frugal supper. . . . 

This position endured for some days. He seemed to 
keep away as much as possible, and her loneliness became 
at times intolerable. But she learned many practical 
things. He taught her to create fire by friction with 
wood; to bake breadfruit—that substitute for a cereal 
in the South Seas—in hot embers, then scoop out the 
interior; or preserve it by drying thin slices in the sun. 
She soon acquired primitive ways of preparing, with a 
camp-fire and a few old native vessels, the strange fish, 
birds and the fruits he brought. 

Then, one day, he came striding down the slope, after 
being absent for hours, looking strangely haggard round 
the eyes. With disconcerting suddenness, in character¬ 
istic, brief sentences, he demanded, more than suggested, 
friendship between them. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


114 

“We can’t go on . . . this life’s unbearable. . . 
His voice was unusually curt, the sentences were dis¬ 
jointed, his nerves evidently worn thin. 

She was taken unawares, at a moment of deep depres¬ 
sion, when everything seemed very dark. Not pausing 
to reflect on the possibility of similar suffering having 
impelled this request from one unaccustomed to beg, 
she shrank back, her fears and suspicions crowding in. 

“I’m afraid I can’t trust your—friendship. I can’t 
forget-” 

He looked at her queerly, with eyes that flashed in 
sudden anger. 

“Damn it all! That was an exceptional night. Can’t 
you understand?” 

But years of Puritan surroundings are not wiped out in 
less than a week. 

“I’m afraid not. I-” 

“Then you must lump it!” He turned away with an 
expressive shrug, and disappeared up the hill. 

That was the only overture he ever made; and the 
strain between them increased. 

Yet, to Barbara, the conquest of difficulties and ac¬ 
quirement of fresh knowledge each day, with the delight 
accompanying any successful ingenuity, became both 
interesting and engrossing. She welcomed anything 
which made work to absorb her thoughts. For the terrible 
feeling of impotence, the sheer homesickness, the loneli¬ 
ness, were ever below the surface, ready, all together or 
individually, to spring upon her at any moment. They 
attacked her unexpectedly, dragging her down into an 
outer darkness, shattering her courage, preying upon he£ 
nerves. . . . 

A day arrived on which the onsets came “not singly 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


115 

but in battalions.” She had been alone for hours. When 
Croft arrived, her spirits were below zero, her nerves 
frayed, her temper was not of the best. He glanced at 
her shrewdly, but appeared to notice nothing. Coming 
to the hut, he dropped a large cocoanut into her lap, 
where she sat outside the door. 

“There you are, my child! Get busy!” he remarked 
casually. 

Uncontrollable irritation, the result of solitary fretting, 
welled up within her. Impulsively she seized the cocoa- 
nut and hurled it down the beach. “Don’t call me that! 
I’m not your ‘child’—nor anything to do with you.” 

There was a moment’s silence; then he gave a little 
laugh. 

“No, indeed! Let’s thank the good Lord for that, at 
all events.” 

She looked up, dumfounded; but he had turned away 
into the hut. 

So that was the position? Her dislike was returned 
in full ? A sharp stab of hurt pride and desolation caused 
sudden tears to rise and roll down her cheeks. She 
scrambled to her feet and, out of sight among the brush¬ 
wood, lay down and sobbed out her heart. 

Croft got his own supper that night. He made no 
comment on her swollen eyes and lack of appetite. But 
when she took the large shells used for plates to wash 
in the lagoon, he rose, impulsively, to follow her. After 
a few steps, however, he paused uncertainly. With a 
little helpless shrug, he returned to the hut. Sitting out¬ 
side, he filled his pipe thoughtfully, his eyes never 
moving from the forlorn figure down by the water’s 
edge. . . . 

Each day he spent much time upon the reef, salving all 


n6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


that was possible of the machine, until what remained was 
swept away one night by the tide. Thus vanished the 
last tangible link with all the old life of ambition. A 
beautiful bubble, his dream of achievement had burst 
around his head, leaving him stranded—not merely back 
at the beginning once more, with the possibility of further 
efforts, but back at the beginning of all creation, cut 
adrift from all fresh endeavors, from the schemes he 
contemplated, the conquests he had predicted. . . . 

A dozen times a day, one or both climbed the hill and 
vainly searched the horizon—gathering, with dwindling 
hopes, more fuel to heap upon the growing pile which 
some day might flare into a beacon to attract a passing 
vessel. 

The natives seldom ventured far from their settlement. 
Whenever Croft encountered one, the frightened wretch 
took to his heels. Only once did he meet one with suffi¬ 
cient courage to reply to the white man’s questions. But, 
at the first allusion to ships and other white men, his 
fortitude gave completely away; with a wailing cry of 
fear, he turned and vanished among the trees, leaving 
Croft no wiser. . . . 

Hope may be the indispensable good fairy of life, but 
she is an elusive one. She flits round; touches us with 
a dainty untrustworthy hand; and then, when we reach 
out to seize her, presto! she is a thousand yards away 
again. Thus did she treat these two. But ever her 
touch grew lighter; until, as the days merged into weeks, 
they ceased to feel it. Each wrestled, separately and 
unaided, with the enemy, despair. . . . 

Barbara was haunted by thoughts of Hugh’s suffering. 
To be alive, in splendid health, yet unable to inform those 
mourning her death, could be equaled only by a like 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ii 7 

impotence upon the other side of the grave to allay the 
sufferings of those beloved upon earth. After a lifetime, 
too, of inseparable companionship, this new existence, 
in which Hugh had no part, seemed strangely incomplete. 
Yet, paradoxically again, his presence was not needed 
here: he would have seemed as much out of place as the 
proverbial fish out of water. 

Croft, on the other hand, appeared daily more suited 
to his environment, fitting in as if it were indeed his 
“natural sphere.” And daily he became more of an 
enigma; therefore, naturally, grew to occupy a more 
prominent position in her thoughts. Gradually, as the 
past grew fainter, her confidence returned. His apparent 
disinclination for her company, though reassuring in one 
way, piqued her in another. If she went with him on 
expeditions for food, it was not at his suggestion; and 
conversation languished. So she withdrew into her own 
shell; and the invisible wall grew higher between them, 
only occasional chinks appearing, or thin places through 
which they came a little nearer. At these times the girl 
regretted her refusal of his one friendly overture. . . . 

His mind, she supposed, was passing through the same 
torments as her own, with the same alternating moods. 
For the first time she began to turn the leaves of that 
engrossing book, Human Nature. That realization 
brought to her, being a woman, the quick instinct to help, 
to hold out the olive-branch. But whenever the olive- 
branch was offered, he seemed not to require it—in fact, 
longer and more frequent did his absences become. . . . 
She grew to look for his coming, to bring interest of 
some sort into the dreariness of her life. 

It was one evening, two or three weeks after the na¬ 
tives' attack, that the largest chink in the wall appeared. 


ii8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


The day had been unusually hot; and she strolled listlessly 
up to the river to bathe. A cool breeze now stirred the 
palm-tops, rustling among the bamboo canes, so that she 
approached unheard. With bare sunburned feet, and 
the revolver—without which she seldom stirred—stuck 
in her belt, she passed through the grove, through the 
tall dark avenues beyond, to the clearing by the water’s 
edge. There she halted, amazed. 

Face downward lay Croft, his dark head buried in his 
arms; beside him were one or two branches of bananas; 
a couple of breadfruit had rolled, unnoticed, a few yards 
away. 

Strangely embarrassed, Barbara hesitated, uncertain 
whether to go or stay. She was in the act of turning 
away, when he lifted his head and saw her. 

For a moment both were silent. In his face was the 
look she had seen there on the morning after the wreck. 
He rose to his feet; and, conquering her embarrassment, 
she went toward him. 

“What is it ?” she asked earnestly. 

He looked down into the misty blue eyes raised, full of 
shy sympathy, to his face. 

“What is it?” he repeated. “Hell! That’s what it 
is.” He stooped to pick up the fruit. “What are you 
doing here? Going to bathe?” 

“I was,” she replied, hesitatingly. “But—don’t go. 
Can’t we sit down and talk? It—it’s so lonely.” 

Again he looked down into her eyes, almost hungrily. 
Nothing she could have said could have hit the mark 
with surer aim. But he clenched his hands and put them 
behind him. 

“Are you lonely? I’m sorry. I wish—you had your 
friends here. If Rochdale-” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


119 

“Oh!” she interrupted, “I didn’t mean that. Hugh 

would be wretched here. I mean you—and—me-” 

She paused, finding expression difficult with this uncom¬ 
promising lack of assistance. Then she gave a quick look 
at his gloomy face, threw pride to the winds, and plunged 
with her old impulsiveness. 

“Can’t we be—friends?” she asked. 

He remained silent, with hands still clasped at his back, 
watching her curiously. 

“I thought you did not wish it,” he remarked at last. 

She sat down upon a rock, abstractedly picking out 
bits of the moss which covered it. 

“I—I’ve—forgotten that-” She paused, flushing. 

“If—we shared our thoughts more, things might not 
seem quite so bad,” she suggested. 

The ghost of a smile moved his lips. 

“I’m afraid that’s—impossible.” 

“Why?” She looked up, startled and hurt. 

“Because my thoughts are not yours. Not at all what 
you imagine!” 

The reflections produced by this cryptic reply appar¬ 
ently amused him, for he smiled again. Then he sat 
down on the ground near her feet. 

“You shall have more company soon. We are going 
to visit the natives!” 

Her face was eloquent with horror and amazement. 

“W-why?” 

“For two reasons. We must inspect the coast to the 
south, to make sure no boats come there-” 

“But you inquired of the man you met in the woods 
one day-” 

“I know. He seemed intelligent, but the bare mention 
of boats nearly gave him a fit. I met him again to-day, 
and sent a message to the chief.” 




120 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“About what?” 

“To come to see me and be prepared to conduct us 
back to their settlement.” 

Barbara gasped. This audacity seemed like deliber¬ 
ately placing one’s hand in the lion’s mouth. 

“What’s the other reason?” 

“To make friends.” 

“Friends! Those savages-!” 

“It’s necessary. They leave us alone now through 
fear, which probably won’t last. They will hate what 
they fear; and in time only the hate may remain. That’s 
not the right keynote for a happy life here; is it ?” He 
looked quietly up at her, with a smile full of hidden 
meaning. 

“No.” She flushed a little; then gave a dreary laugh. 
“But I can’t imagine what could be, in these circum¬ 
stances.” 

“Can’t you?” He looked away at the water tumbling 
over the huge boulders, catching here and there flashes 
of sunlight through the network of branches overhead. 
“You were going to find out all about that, in crowded 
citiesweren't you ?” 

“About what?” 

“What the keynote is which you have found missing 
to the vast harmony of creation.” 

She glanced at him in pleased surprise. 

“How nicely you express it! I never realized it so 
clearly as that; it was all vague. Yes. I suppose that 
is what I felt. It’s strange, but I haven't felt it so much, 
here.” 

He looked up quickly, a light she could not fathom in 
his eyes. “Really?” 

“Yes. Really! Although we are even further away 
from life than at Darbury!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


121 


'‘Indeed we’re not!” he retorted. “We are consider¬ 
ably nearer. This is real life, not merely the surface 
layer. Wait until you visit the natives; then you won’t 
say we are far away. You will find, there, other little 
notes right at the opposite end of the octave to those 
of the twentieth century which we have left—untouched 
by any of our religion and education; but perhaps not 
differing much! If you stripped away the veneer of 
civilization, and brought everybody here, you might find 
that human nature has not advanced so greatly during 
the centuries, in spite of its advantages!” 

Barbara sat watching the light smoldering in his eyes 
as he spoke. Being used to an environment where little 
besides surface matters engrossed people’s thoughts and 
constituted their intercourse, she found this man’s unex¬ 
pected dives into the heart of things extraordinarily 
attractive. 

“Do you regard life as a harmony?” she asked, after 
a pause, with sudden desire for deeper intimacy. 

He threw a stone into the river, watching the ever- 
widening circles it produced. 

“Surely!” he replied. “On a large scale, in which 
each smallest note plays a part, every discord is of value, 
and—chief of all—in which each note has unlimited effect 
upon every other note! If the treble doesn’t understand 
the bass, it doesn’t follow that the bass is not needed.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the girl eagerly, “that’s why the 
melody is often lost—lack o£ understanding! I see what 
you mean. It’s a lovely idea. Nature is the big harmony; 
isn’t she? But the human notes often mar it instead of— 
of—what do I want to say ?—completing it. Don’t they ? 
You know those lines of Dryden’s— 

‘Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 

The diapason closing full in Man’? 


122 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“And the keynote is—what?” 

He smiled at her eagerness. “That is what you must 
discover and tell me,” he said, getting to his feet. 

“Here?” 

“Why not?” 

She watched him collect his fruit. 

“Have you found it?” she asked boldly. 

He looked at her for a moment thoughtfully; then 
answered, guardedly: “I know what it is. And I have 
only fully realized its necessity since—coming here! We 
all use substitutes out in the world. It has a lot of 
branches—or, rather, sub-keys. I think my cousin, 
Madge Field, is the only person I know who possesses it 
in its entirety. Perhaps,” he continued ruminatingly, 
“few people ever truly discover it; or we shouldn’t, as you 
say, mar the harmony. . . . Well, Barbara, have 
your dip.” 

He was about to turn away; but, acting upon some 
impulse, paused behind her. 

“Is it all very dreary for you—here? Do you hate it 
so much?” 

There was a wonderful, unusual gentleness in his 
voice—an undercurrent of something, almost yearning, 
which touched her unaccountably. 

“It’s no worse for me than for you,” she replied, 
responding to his tone in the natural generosity of her 
heart. He made no reply for a moment. Then, lightly, 
he pressed her shoulder with his hand. 

“Come and tell me when the loneliness is too bad.” 

And he was gone, his footsteps dying away upon the 
loose twigs of bamboo cane. 

She sat pondering over his words, wondering why he 
made no decisive response to her overture of friendship. 
Yet he proved, by the very tone of his voice, a care for 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


123 


her welfare which, had she realized it, went far to miti¬ 
gate the losses she had sustained. 

She undressed and stood, fair and slim as Psyche, 
beside the water, a fresh interest awakened in her com¬ 
panion. As she lowered herself into the shimmering 
ripples, she resolved to follow up this talk, to press 
through this thin piece of wall; and, by a process of subtle 
siege, win the friendship which all at once seemed ex¬ 
tremely desirable. Mrs. Field’s words upon this very 
subject recurred to her mind. Little as she understood 
him, she began vaguely to realize the truth in the remark. 

But, as usual, disappointment met her efforts when 
next she assailed the wall. The gap proved to be firmly 
patched up, even barred across. It was impregnable. 
Baffled, she could only finger the bars and wonder. . . 

“We will build a new hut!” he exclaimed, with his 
usual quick decision, the surface layer of practical inter¬ 
ests effectually stifling all else. “It will at least give us 
occupation.” 

The gathering and interlacing of bamboo, with all the 
necessary arranging and planning, forthwith engrossed 
most of their time. Barbara became, to her own surprise, 
greatly interested. The companionship necessarily pro¬ 
duced, though far removed from the deeper intimacy 
which those occasional, illuminating flashes had caused 
her to desire, was unexpectedly delightful after weeks of 
loneliness and strain. While they worked together, Croft 
told her much concerning the Pacific islands, and the 
natives’ customs and superstitions. 

The old chief appeared, keeping a safe distance, soon 
after receiving the white man’s message. But an out¬ 
break of sickness was raging in the settlement; therefore, 
much to the girl’s relief, their visit was postponed. Hav¬ 
ing ascertained from him that no trade was carried on 


124 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


with other islands, that no ships came to the south, Croft 
threw himself with renewed zest into the building of the 
hut. As if to drown all thought, he worked incessantly, 
sometimes moodily silent, sometimes seeming keenly to 
enjoy the new comradeship that had established itself, 
little by little, between them. A month or more passed 
before the native chiefs wrinkled black face appeared 
again, two warriors in attendance. To Barbara, this 
insistence upon visiting the settlement seemed too risky 
to be quite sane. Croft laughed at her remonstrances. 

“I told you why it is necessary,” he said. “Besides, 
it will open up a new world of interest. Above all, it’s 
such an adventure! Do try to remember that, once, you 
craved for "adventure’!” 

He laughed again at her expression; and she smiled the 
kind of smile one gives upon a Channel steamer with a 
“swell” underneath. 

""I don’t want to become soup!” she replied, tucking 
his revolver into her belt. 

He thrust a hand through her arm, when they joined 
the natives; and again she was conscious of the old mag¬ 
netic stimulation of his personality, which had sustained 
her during the first terrible nights and days. 

While she walked along, listening to their occasional 
extraordinary utterances, she wondered much concerning 
his changes of demeanor. Again it was he who engrossed 
her mind, albeit unconsciously, to the extinction of dan¬ 
gers ahead—as he had engrossed it during the past 
weeks; helping her, by a counter-irritant, to get through 
their dreariness. 

In her new study of the book of Human Nature she 
had many pages yet to turn. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


125 


VI 

Fear and curiosity formed the chief elements of the 
unusual animation in the natives’ settlement. Great 
bustle of preparation was in progress—spearing of fish, 
gathering of fruit, by men; while the smoke of many 
fires, ascending into the still air, indicated the occupation 
of the women. 

Had not the chief ordered unlimited feasting to pacify 
the stomachs, music to delight the senses of the Terrible 
Ones? Balhuaka, the stone god, looked incongruous 
among garlands of trailing vine and the feathery leaves 
of tree-ferns. Before him stood the sacrificial table—a 
massive tree-trunk stripped of its bark, upon which was 
piled a heap of dried sticks and undergrowth. 

Balhuaka ever demanded a sacrifice at the full moon, 
and the moon was now at the full; and the people trem¬ 
bled, for the selection had been reserved for the Great 
White Chief, and who could tell what ruthless cruelties 
he might not exact? 

Meamaa sat by her sick child and wept. This was the 
first fresh case of illness since the recent epidemic, and 
already threatening murmurs had arisen: the small tribe 
could not risk another outbreak. People shunned her 
hut, although it was not yet proclaimed tabu . She knew 
well what was in their minds. With no superficial civi¬ 
lization causing them to hide their natural instinct of 
self-protection, they openly hailed this possible substitute 
for an offering. Some of her friends even taunted her 
with their hopes, if she appeared outside. 

“A-aa !* a-aa! Weep, Meamaa! The little one is with 
thee for the day; but, a-aa! with the setting of the sun he 
shall become as the smoke curling up to the nostrils of 
the Great White Chief! Weep, Meamaa!” 


126 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Yet she was one of themselves, and the child a favorite. 
She thought none the worse of them: they knew not the 
art of wearing double-faced masks. 

Meanwhile, the dreaded visitors were being escorted 
with some dignity through the intricacies of the thick 
inland vegetation. Although obviously terrified, the old 
chief bore himself well, maintaining a natural dignity 
with his humility. 

The scenery was wildly beautiful. Huge trees cooled 
and shaded the air with their spreading foliage, orchids 
and poinsettias abounded, and everywhere ferns rioted. 

At midday they halted in a glade for food. The two 
guards speedily vanished; but the old chief sat down a 
short distance away, refusing all offers of lunch. 

“Tabut tabu!” he muttered, eying their food with re¬ 
gret and tapping his black stomach as if to show that 
refreshment would be welcome. 

Croft remembered many of the laws governing that 
strange superstitious practise upon which their own 
safety largely depended. 

“We being tabu,” he explained to Barbara, “our food 
and everything we touch is infected; therefore not to be 
touched by anybody else for fear of instant death! 
Rather convenient, when one is hungry.” 

Chimabahoi, emboldened by the friendly overture, put 
into words a question which had long troubled him. 

“Where dwell thy tribe, O Mighty Chief ?” he inquired, 
with some trepidation. “No white warriors were visible 
around thy dwelling upon the coral shore. Do they, 
perchance, live in the rocks, or in holes deep within the 
earth?” 

For a moment the other was mystified. Then, remem¬ 
bering the natives’ tribal instinct, he seized this advantage 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


127 

and stood up, waving his arms as if to include the 
universe. 

“My tribe/’ he explained equivocally, “is ever present; 
it ever surrounds us! Armed and ready at any moment 
to come to our aid, it waits, though invisible to mortal eye. 
Earthly habitation is not necessary for the White Chief’s 
warriors/’ 

The old native glanced about uneasily, a look of alarm 
overspreading his face. Barbara, not understanding their 
words, watched him; then caught the dancing imp in 
Alan’s eye and hastily hid her own face for a moment. 
His sense of drama rising with the situation, Alan 
stretched out a regal hand. 

“Peace, O Chief! Have no fear! They will not touch 
thee without my command.” Then, sitting down, he took 
this opportunity of furthering his own designs. 

“I and my tribe would be friendly to thee and thine. 
Why hast thou been hostile unto us ? Why hast thou so 
tempted the wrath of the gods who sent us hither, by 
greeting us with spear and arrow ?” 

Chimabahoi beat his breast, looking fearfully at Croft 

“It was the Vow,” he said in a low tone. 

“The Vow? What vow?” 

“The Vow of Vengeance—of Hate!” The old man 
rose, and walked to and fro, feverishly pulling his beard, 
obviously laboring under some strong emotion. At last 
he paused opposite them, and they saw tears upon his 
wrinkled black cheeks. “Hearken, Great Chief!” he said. 
“The white man came before, not many summers past. 
He came in great numbers, and he kill! A-aa! He let 
loose his magic, and he kill most of my tribe with his 
smoke! It hit them, making holes, leaving little hard 
ball-devils behind. Opr homes were near thine own, 


128 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


even in the huts beside the waving palms. They also 
were shattered by the smoke and its ball-devils. My 
warriors lay dead, bleeding on the ground. Our women 
also, our little ones, they spared not!” He paused, over¬ 
come, for a moment. 

Croft sat listening intently, with dawning compre¬ 
hension. 

“How did they come? ,, he asked. 

“The lagoon was black with strange canoes, Great 
Chief. Beyond, near the big gap in the reef, floated an 
island. . . . A-aa! a strange sight, filling the bravest 

with fear-” He stopped, again overcome, and turned 

away. 

Hastily Croft interpreted this conversation to the girl. 

“Didst thou attack these white men first?” he asked. 

The old man shook his head. “We feared their arrival! 
We but gathered together, outside our houses, to see the 
wondrous sight. The hand of Death has been heavy 
upon us, and we were small in number, even then. That 
day, less than half were left alive. . . . My sons were 
all slain. . . 

“The damned murderers!” 

Chimabahoi looked up, startled by this burst of vehe¬ 
ment English. Croft controlled his indignation, making 
further inquiries, which elicited the answers he expected. 

“They were all men,” the native told him. “After 
they had killed, they fled away to their canoes. They 
were covered with dark clothing, each like unto each. 
When they spoke, they spoke strangely—here,” he 
stroked his throat, “and their words were like the sounds 
made by one whose stomach is too full, and who must 
return somewhat lying therein.” 

This vivid description of the Teutonic tongue convinced 
his listener. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


129 


“Ha! The damned Huns! I thought as much.” He 
again interpreted for the girl at his side. “Now let me 
think. We must turn this to our advantage. It proves 
what we talked about that evening by the river; doesn't 
it? The effects of our ‘civilized’ war were felt even 
here!” He ran his fingers through his hair, watching 
Chimabahoi thoughtfully. 

“And thy Vow was of vengeance upon all white men?” 

“Even so, Great Chief.” 

“H’m! ...” His fertile brain speedily conceived a 
plan which, if wild, was yet founded on fact. For the 
prestige of his country this account of the war to a people 
ignorant of other lands and their politics could not have 
been in better hands. He had been right through it him¬ 
self and was no sentimentalist. 

“Chief,” he began confidently, “those white men who 
murdered thy sons were an enemy tribe waging war 
against my tribe. And their ways were treacherous, their 
weapons terrible!” 

Chimabahoi was unusually intelligent for a native. 
Quick to grasp the meaning of this stranger, who spoke a 
dialect so much resembling his own, a flash of compre¬ 
hension leapt into his eyes. 

“And they came hither thinking to find thee here, 
Great Chief, so that they might slay thee ?” 

A smile lit up Croft’s face. If not strictly accurate, 
this surmise would suit his purpose admirably. 

“Even so! And, seeing thy tribe of a different hue, 
they were filled with fear and cried, saying, ‘Let us slay 
them!’ ”—he had a vague impression of biblical eloquence, 
but it translated very well—“And they slew all thy sons 
in their fear; then ran to their boats. For their hearts are 
as the fermented breadfruit long stored in a pit.” 

Pausing to refresh his oratory, he proceeded to picture 


130 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


their mutual enemy in lurid colors, assuring the chief of 
their downfall. This gave him another inspiration. 

“The gods sent us hither to tell thee that thy Vow of 
Vengeance had already overtaken the tribehe an¬ 
nounced coolly. “But, because thou earnest against us, 
we could not carry out our mission. The gods were an¬ 
gered, therefore, and visited thy tribe with sickness. 
Thou hadst to learn the fear of us and our wrath. For, 
behold! when I and my tribe make war, we do so in fear¬ 
some and mysterious ways. When the evil white men 
pitted their strength against mine, I met them not upon 
the ground with spear and shield; but in the air!” He 
waved familiarly toward the strip of sky visible above 
the trees. “Away among the clouds I hid, sailing across 
the blue heavens to hurl my weapons at the enemy, while 

he searched for me upon thy land.Therefore, 

Chief, see that thou and thine fall not again into sin by 
lifting thy hands against us, the friends of all the gods!” 

This flow of eloquence made a tremendous impression 
upon Chimabahoi. His relief was intense. That this 
godlike pair, with their wonderful powers, had come upon 
a mission of peace and friendship, inspired visions of 
renewed prosperity in his simple mind. Coming closer, 
he prostrated himself at their feet, in submission. 

To Croft the sight of this gray-haired man groveling 
before him was pitiful. But for the sake of their safety 
he continued to play his part, accepting the deference in 
a truly regal manner. 

After this they set forth again. It was no longer dif¬ 
ficult to make Chimabahoi talk. His delight was almost 
childlike, resulting in a garrulity difficult at times to 
understand. But Croft realized that the little tribe, with 
the natives’ melancholy sense of fatalism, had become 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


131 

convinced of its extinction, this conviction producing 
inertia. Apparently all attempts at cultivation had ceased, 
with all forethought for future generations. 

The Papuans are not skilful sailors. Croft was pre¬ 
pared to find that no seagoing enterprise had ever existed, 
and that no ships ever passed this way; though there was 
a legend of white men being seen upon the island and dis¬ 
appearing again, some generations before, when the tribe 
had become nearly extinguished by an epidemic. The 
unusually high reef might partly account for this extra¬ 
ordinary isolation, Croft reflected, while he listened to 
the chief’s mournful tale of decreasing numbers. 

“We can no longer provide feasts of man-flesh, Great 
Chief,” he concluded apologetically, “unless it be thy 
command-” 

Croft simulated disappointment over this. Barbara’s 
unbounded relief, when he passed on the information, 
caused him some amusement. The prospect of feeding 
upon cannibal diet had been hardly less trying than the 
fear of providing it. 

When they emerged from the southern end of the for¬ 
est, the little colony of huts came into view. The ver¬ 
dure grew right down to the settlement; on both sides 
rose steep hills of considerable height. Standing in the 
deep water of the lagoon were stakes with what are 
known as “crows’ nests” attached—supposed to be 
charms to attract fish, which are then shot with bow and 
arrow, or speared. This sight was familiar to Croft, who 
explained it eagerly to the girl. 

He was exhilarated, she could see, by the success, thus 
far, of this daring venture. With no fears for the hours 
ahead, he was boyishly enjoying the humor of the sit¬ 
uation. She marveled, too, at her own composure, when 


i 3 2 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


they drew near the shore. Calmly walking into the 
stronghold of the cannibals! Truly, this was adventure! 

“The huts are deserted,” she observed. “Where is 
everybody ?” 

“Dressing for dinner, perhaps,” he suggested lightly. 
“Oh, lord! I am dry. And they won’t supply a whisky 
and soda! I suppose gods don’t smoke, do they ? Celes¬ 
tial life has its drawbacks.” 

“I wonder what they wear ?” 

“Who? Gods?” 

“No. The natives—for dinner.” 

He gave a shout of laughter, causing Chimabahoi to 
jump with fright. 

“Oh, just a reed or two, maybe. What we may come 
to, yet.” 

Barbara said no more. 

VII 

The cause of the deserted appearance of the place was 
soon clear. Chimabahoi led his guests round the 
western outskirts of the little settlement, toward the belt 
of verdure reaching down on that side almost to the la¬ 
goon. Here, in a large clearing used for council chamber, 
with carpet of moss, walls of lofty trees, roof frescoed 
with blue and green tracery, was assembled apparently the 
entire tribe. 

Upon the white chief’s appearance a wailing murmur 
arose, interspersed by the occasional frightened cry of a 
child. At a shout from their chief, they all fell upon their 
faces. Three times they raised their bodies, swaying 
backward, then down again to the earth. After the third 
obeisance they rose to their feet, eying the strangers curi¬ 
ously, fearfully. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


133 


And with much the same curiosity did the English girl 
look upon these primitive creatures of her own sex. 
Many of the women, as well as men, were naked; others 
wore short skirts, corresponding to the men’s loin-cloths, 
made from hand-woven reed matting, colored chiefly red 
and black by the dyes obtained from local plants. Short 
of stature, both men and women were of small build, 
their long heads covered with frizzy black hair which was 
sometimes tied with vegetable fiber into a multitude of 
little tufts; the sooty-black faces were conspicuous for 
breadth of nose and thickness of lip. Some appeared in¬ 
telligent, some dull or stupid, others merely fierce with 
the fierceness of untamed animals. 

While the old chief launched into a lengthy oration, and 
as she watched the varying expressions upon their faces, 
it dawned upon her that these might be, henceforth, the 
only human beings in her life! This appalling probability 
shocked her, as she realized it, with almost the effect of 
a sudden, reeling blow. Shuddering, she turned from the 
small dusky bodies and looked at Croft’s fine physique. 
His head was averted, his attention entirely engrossed by 
Chimabahoi’s gabbling speech. 

The future conjured up vividly, in all its terrible isola¬ 
tion, seemed for a moment unbearable of sane contempla¬ 
tion. Conscious of mental nausea, like one drowning, she 
clutched at the only remaining link with life—the com¬ 
panion destined to the same fate. For the first time in 
her life she called him by name, grasping his arm: 

“Alan!” 

Quickly he turned, in astonishment. 

“We may never see any other human beings!” she 
gasped. 

With his usual swift penetration he understood, by the 
desperation in her voice and eyes, the overwhelming hor- 


134 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


rors raised by this thought. For a moment he hesitated; 
then, pulling her hand down into his, he clasped it close, 
saying nothing. At his reassuring touch the awful lone¬ 
liness faded gradually, as the autumn mists when the sun 
breaks through. 

A sudden outburst of exultant cries rent the air. The 
lengthy eulogy came to an end at last. The pathetic relief 
in every swarthy breast manifested itself in wild leaps 
and jubilant shouts. 

Croft, like Mr. Micawber, was not slow in seizing an 
opportunity for eloquence. Raising his free hand to com¬ 
mand silence, he glibly reeled off other duties assigned to 
him. 

It was, he stated confidently, the gods’ desire that he 
and his wife should live upon the island to assist the tribe 
in the recovery of its strength and prosperity. This pro¬ 
voked more uproarious shouting. 

“They would have you to cultivate again the taro plant, 
which now is as a weed; weave much tapestry for your 
huts from the reeds; dry the sliced kernels of the cocoa- 
nut; cultivate the cotton seed. Then, perchance, when 
we remove to other lands, we shall send great ships 
hither with wondrous gifts in return for the fruits of 
your toil.” Further shouts arose. “The gods would 
have us to visit freely your habitations and show you 
how to prevent the pestilences which devour your num¬ 
bers. And”—stopping yet wilder outbursts of enthus¬ 
iasm—“ye shall, in return, yield unto me gifts of spears, 
tapestry, implements for cultivating the ground, and all 
things needed by a white chief upon your land.” 

This program was vociferously acclaimed; but Croft’s 
experience of natives was too wide to allow of reliance 
upon their momentary enthusiasm. Flashing a stern 
glance around, he awed them into silence. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


135 


“If all this is done peacefully/’ he continued, in 
threatening tones, “ye shall rest in safety. But if again 
your hands are lifted against us, your bodies shall be 
burned afresh with blue fire-devils! Your women shall 
be slain; your little ones thrown to the sharks! The 
wrath of your god will I bring down,” waving his hand 
threateningly skyward, “and turn you into tortured slaves, 
if ever again ye molest the great white chief or his wife!” 

Fear overawed the natives’ enthusiasm. They fell on 
their faces again, babbling incoherently of obedience and 
mercy. He motioned them to rise; then he drew back, 
satisfied of being able henceforth to play upon their super¬ 
stitions. He had established comparative safety for them 
both, for the time being at all events, and explained the 
scene to Barbara, exultantly. 

She listened in amaze, marveling at the ease with which 
this man ever gained his wildest objects. 

This introduction over, Chimabahoi now informed his 
guest of his privilege in choosing the great sacrifice to be 
offered up at the close of the feast. Should the great 

white chief decide upon human sacrifice- The old 

man waved toward the crowd of faces, watching in tense 
apprehension: “All are here, O Mighty Chief.” 

Upon this arose a chorus of dissentient cries, mixed 
with shouts of “Meamaa! Meamaa!” The natives 
pressed forward in eager anxiety. 

Chimabahoi glanced up quickly. 

“Where is Meamaa ? I see her not. Where is Roowa, 
her husband? And Laalo, her son?” 

A little black figure was thrust roughly forward. He 
glanced round, fearfully, uncertain whether to cry or 
prove the manhood of his five years. Deciding upon the 
former course, his eyes, in the act of screwing up, en¬ 
countered those of the white girl watching him curi- 


136 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ously; and he paused, gazing at her, his mouth open. 
She smiled. A wondering grin slowly overspread his 
small impish face, and he moved nearer, looking up at her 
with childish adoration. 

For the first time Barbara felt the humanity behind the 
repulsive exterior of these folk. She held out her free 
hand. The little fellow came shyly toward it, but some 
one roughly pulled him back; and she remembered, with 
some amusement, that she was tabu! 

Accompanied by much muttering and scuffling, a man 
whose face was distinctly more intelligent than that of 
many of his fellows, slowly advanced. Croft watched 
him closely. 

“Roowa!” cried Chimabahoi, ‘'where are Meamaa and 
thy babe, that they obeyed not the command to greet the 
great white chief?” 

Many eager voices broke in, before he could reply. 

“The babe is sick, O Chief!” 

“Sick and like to die! A-aa! a-aa!” 

“The scourge, O Chief! It is again in the house of 
Roowa!” 

Roowa looked round him like an animal at bay; which 
in truth he was, for the native loves his young. “It is 
no scourge, O Chief!” he cried. “The babe will recover. 
This day at noon-” 

“A-aa!” broke in the eager voices. “At noon she 
raised her eyelids, but ’twas only for the space of a falling 
leaf. It is the scourge, O Chief! Let the great white 
chief save us from the scourge, at the Sacrifice of the 
Full Moon to-night-” 

Roowa uttered a great cry, and fell on his knees before 
Croft, eyes wild, arms outstretched, babbling protesta¬ 
tions and pitiful supplications. 

The white man fully realized the craftiness of these 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


137 


fellows, also the delicacy of his own position, with the 
necessity of causing no offense in this first action as over- 
lord. His face set in its most determined, impenetrable 
lines; his eyes flashed round on all present, inspiring fear 
in the hearts of those upon whom they occasionally rested. 
Recognizing at last the man he sought, he motioned him 
forward. 

Larger than most, more brutal of countenance, Barbara 
quickly recognized her late pursuer. 

“What is he called ?” Croft demanded of Chimabahoi. 

“Babooma, O Greatest of Chiefs!” 

The two men regarded each other silently; and in the 
look of the native Croft recognized hatred and defiance, 
in spite of the fear lurking in the bold eyes which met his 
own. 

“He’d roast well, wouldn’t he?” he murmured to Bar¬ 
bara, who gave a horrified gasp. 

A dull murmur arose, in which his ear was quick to 
note hostility. The old chief’s face was full of anxiety as 
he stepped forward, pulling his beard nervously. 

“Few have so straight an aim as Babooma, Great Chief. 
He is of kin to my house. He will become chief in my 
stead. Many,” he added in a low voice, “would have him 
now; for I am old and my heart is dead with my sons.” 

“He hath not found favor in my sight,” replied the 
gods’ messenger curtly, frowning upon the wretch, whose 
expression of defiance was rapidly fading. “He hath 
raised his eyes and his hand to the white chief’s wife!” he 
thundered, glaring ferociously at the now trembling 
figure. 

Like a sudden breeze rippling over a group of poplars, 
a breath of fear swept across the listening crowd. Ba¬ 
booma began a stream of gabbling protest: he was un¬ 
aware of the sinfulness of his action; he had not seen the 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


138 

great chief nor heard of his mission from the gods; it 
was the Vow. . . . 

Croft waved him away. 

“Thou knowest now. Take heed, over-bold one!” 
Then he turned to Roowa, still on his knees in despair. 

“Roowa,” he asked, “thou lovest thy little ones?” 

“A-aa! As myself, Mighty Chief!” 

The look in his eyes touched Barbara. It was another 
glimpse into a human soul, although as yet she under¬ 
stood nothing of his trouble. 

“It is well. Take heart, Roowa! My will is not to 
offer up thy sick babe; but to go with thee now to thy 
hut, and, perchance, cure the child.” 

The joy which transfigured the native’s face was 
indescribable. Upon the dismissal of the tribe, he led 
the visitors to his hut, incoherent in his excitement. As 
Croft had guessed, the child only suffered from fever, 
needing more air and cleanliness—the filth and stench 
being abominable. Ordering those necessities, he pro¬ 
duced from his pockets one of his fever antidotes, Mea- 
maa watching him in terrified bewilderment; then he 
precipitately pushed Barbara out into the fresh air again. 

The feast, to which they were now led, was spread upon 
the ground in an open space between the huts and the 
lagoon. Only the men squatted round to eat, the women 
—occupying a lower position—waited upon them, with 
the pleasant expectation of finishing their leavings. 

A large amount of food was set a little apart for the 
visitors. What remained would be kept in a sacred place 
for them—not eaten by the others, who would have ex¬ 
pected immediate death. A native with a large fern- 
stalk would have conveyed this food to their mouths, it 
being against the rules of tabu to feed themselves lest 
they should touch that most sacred tabued spot, the head! 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


139 


Croft, however, with some ingenious invention of his 
resourceful gods, waived this rite. 

The food was quite palatable, and Barbara registered 
some mental notes for future culinary experiments. In 
addition to fish, birds, and raw fruit, there were many 
made dishes in which cocoanut predominated in some 
form, though never presented raw. Breadfruit was con¬ 
spicuous, yams, reminding her of potatoes, pandanus 
fruit, the liquid of the cocoanut forming their beverage. 
What could not be broken by their fingers was cut by a 
peculiar kind of knife made from sharp shells fixed in 
cocoanut handles. 

To a carefully-reared European girl it was a strange 
sight. The large circle of black naked and semi-naked 
figures decked with necklaces and armlets of shell, or 
garlands of flowers, jabbered incomprehensibly, show¬ 
ing their white teeth in bursts of uproarious merriment, 
grabbing their food with both hands and consuming it 
with greedy haste. The old chief sat near in his usual 
regalia; Croft squatted comfortably beside him, talking 
with the ease of one accustomed to this mode of life from 
birth. Behind them clustered the little bamboo huts, 
some thatched with palm-leaf, some with reed-matting; 
away below glittered white sand, bounded by the bril¬ 
liant blue of the lagoon, its high reef gleaming in the 
distance. 

With fleeting amusement her mind flashed to the con¬ 
ventional meals at home, and she imagined the effect 
upon the Darburyites had they been present. Aunt Mary 
would doubtless have ordered trousers from the nearest 
tailor for those happy, unashamed sons of nature! 

This reflection enabled her to understand the reason of 
their appearance seeming so natural. They had not 
learned to regard their bodies as objects of shame to be 


140 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


covered and hidden; or, by half revealing, to degrade the 
wonders and beauty of the human form to mere incen¬ 
tives to sensuality. They were, in truth, sons of nature, 
shorn of vulgarity, innocent as children in the joyous 
freedom of their limbs warmed by the sun and cooled by 
the winds and rain. Some of the fundamental realities 
by reason of which they appealed to Croft caused her 
heart, also, to warm toward them; even as the humanity 
in the eyes of Roowa and his little son had done. A 
primitive, sensuous delight in the scene swept over her. 
She remembered Croft’s words: “At the very bedrock 
of nature.” A strange exultation at the thought made 
the blood tingle in her veins. 

When at last the long meal ended, after the women had 
fallen upon the remains like vultures, musical instru¬ 
ments were produced—conch shells, reed flutes, bamboo 
drums. To their accompaniment were chanted native folk 
songs, historic legends or myths—mournful, wailing, age- 
old laments over distant tragedies, producing an eerie 
sensation of fatalism, of horrors ever lurking in the 
shadows, of superstitions yet held in dread. Singularly 
appropriate gestures—the result of dramatic instinct, not 
trained art—emphasized the weird singing. The men 
bowed their bodies to the earth; beat their hands; raised 
them toward the setting sun; rolled their eyeballs. The 
women hugged themselves, swaying, with closed eyes, 
from side to side. The voices sank gradually to a low 
monotone; were broken by a sudden wail; answered by 
another; sank again, murmuring and muttering; until 
only the elfin-like music of the shells and reeds remained, 
seeming to embody the spirit of this Island of Singing 
Waters—the wind whispering among the palms, the 
wavelets rippling in the lagoon, the many hues of moss 
and tree, coral and sand. . . . 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


141 

Then, with dramatic suddenness, a wild, jubilant song 
of conquest burst forth, a spasmodic outburst of barbaric 

joy, with laughter, yells, clapping-. It ceased as 

abruptly as it began; with no carefully constructed con¬ 
clusion, yet in perfect rhythm. The company sank down 
exhausted, grinning and talking together. 

Alan turned to Barbara, his eyes glowing. 

“Isn’t that real music? The natural outpouring of the 
very soul! Doesn’t it make you realize the harmony we 
spoke of-?” He stopped, surprised by the correspond¬ 

ing glow in her own eyes. “Do you still feel far from 
life?” 

“No!” she exclaimed. “You were right. This is 
vital—real!” 

They became aware that all eyes were now fastened on 
them. The sun had set. The sacrifice must be decided 
upon. An air of anxiety, of strained expectation, was 
manifest. 

Croft’s wits had not been slumbering. To find a suffi¬ 
ciently important substitute for a human victim was not 
easy upon an island where it was impossible to chance, 
like Abraham, upon a convenient “ram caught in a 
thicket.” 

“Our gods have told me,” he informed Chimabahoi 
confidentially, “that thy god, Balhuaka, doth not hunger 
for the flesh of man this moon; neither doth he desire 
fish or bird to be offered unto him. He desireth to taste 
the dishes thou hast prepared for those who have sailed 
here from the skies. All that we have left uneaten shalt 
thou collect, therefore, and offer unto him. It is food 
tabu to those sent by the gods: therefore doth he require 
it beyond all other food.” 

This distinct greediness seemed more in character with 
a peevish child than a celestial being; but to Chimabahoi 




142 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


it appeared natural enough. He communicated the deci¬ 
sion to the tribe, which showed vociferously its unmis¬ 
takable relief. 

The ambrosial remains were therefore gathered to¬ 
gether and placed in receptacles of plaited reeds, some¬ 
what resembling Sussex trugs in shape. Lighted reed 
torches were produced for everybody, and the procession 
set forth, headed by the old chief and the white visitors. 
Turning westward through the council chamber, they 
bore a little inland to the sacred palm grove. 

Within a few moments the torches had formed two 
waving lines of light, as the natives divided upon either 
side of the central path. The bearers of the sacrifice 
advanced up the center and laid it upon the unlighted 
bonfire; the musicians squatted on the ground near the 
altar, beginning again their uncanny music. Chimaba- 
hoi, combining the offices of chief priest, standing before 
the pile and facing the stone of god, began a long sing¬ 
song incantation, which lasted for some time. The rest 
of the tribe occasionally joined in, like a choir or chorus, 
imitating his gestures, waving their torches high or 
sweeping them low to the ground, now wailing, now 
muttering. 

The preliminary rites ceased, and Chimabahoi turned 
to Croft. 

“Thou, O Great White Chief, shalt make the flames 
arise, straight and high! Thus shall we know that our 
sacrifice is accepted by our god.” 

The great white chief inclined his head. Stepping for¬ 
ward with the assurance of one used to guiding sacrificial 
flames from childhood, he advanced to the altar, Barbara 
watching him in astonishment. There he paused for a 
solemn moment—whether to give the effect of reverence, 
or to grasp some elusive memory, or from sheer joy in 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


143 


the situation, she could not tell. . . . Slowly, at last, 
he raised his arms, waving the flaring torch high above 
his head. Then he embarked upon a short display of 
physical drill, as if invoking the spirits of an unseen host. 
It impressed the natives into awestruck silence, while 
filling the girl with an almost irrepressible desire to laugh. 
After this performance, he bent slowly down and held his 
torch to the heap of dry sticks and leaves. Immediately 
the fire caught on, crackling and fizzling, sending up 
leaping yellow flames and thick curling smoke into the 
somber vault above. Making a few more arm move¬ 
ments, he watched it; then stepped back. For a fleeting 
instant his eyes met Barbara’s; and both looked quickly 
away again. 

This instant and splendid conflagration was a sign of 
the offering being acceptable to Balhuaka. Another burst 
of excited incantation broke from the assembly, the musi¬ 
cians once more blowing upon their reeds and shells. A 
party of girls sprang forward, whirling, swaying, shak¬ 
ing, leaping—every inch of their bodies part of their 
rhythmic dance. The higher the flames ascended the 
more frenzied became the girls’ movements and the men’s 
voices. The torches flared, the bonfire bellied forth thick 
gusts of flame and smoke, its roar mingling with the 
music and wild singing. 

The effect was wondrously barbaric and picturesque, 
with the high mass of stone outlined against its shadowy 
background of palms and forest. A primitive desire to 
shed all remaining shackles of civilization and hurl her¬ 
self into the midst of the dancing throng, startled Bar¬ 
bara with its force. 

At last the flames reached the sacrifice and the air was 
filled with the smell of burning food. 

A great shout went up. The god was even now eating 


144 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


of their offering! Health and prosperity would be theirs 
for at least the duration of this moon! The music 
abruptly ceased; the dancers sank breathless to the 
ground; an awed hush fell upon the gathering. . . . The 
foodstuff hissed and sizzled, the burning wood crackled, 
the flames roared, the wind rustled the leaves of the trees, 
but of other sound there was none. 

When the fire had died down to a glowing heap of red 
embers, the silence broke stormily in an outburst of joy¬ 
ous hilarity. The procession started back to the settle¬ 
ment, the riotous merriment continuing all the way, the 
waving torches making the moon seem pale by contrast. 

At a small hut on the outskirts Chimabahoi paused, in¬ 
timating that it was the best they could offer and would 
in future be tabu to the great white chief. Then the 
revelers dispersed, the torches flickering like miniature 
fires among the neighboring huts. The man and the girl 
were left alone. 

The barbaric excitement still tingled in their veins and 
shone in their eyes, when, for a moment, they looked at 
each other. Instinctively Barbara caught her breath, 
putting her hand to her throat, as if to wrestle with 
something choking her; her torch fell to the ground. 

“We-we—can’t stay—here!” she muttered, half to 
herself. 

She felt his hand upon her arm; the touch sent a wild 
tremor through her entire frame. It was as if in her 
wrought-up state, an electric wire had touched her, im¬ 
parting strange currents which, with waves of magnetism, 
dragged her close within their field, while simultaneously 
repelling her with an unknown fear. Feebly she resisted, 
but his grip tightened, pulling her across the threshold. 

“The natives are watching!” he muttered in her ear. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


145 


His torch showed the interior to be small and bare, 
the sole contents being two rolls of reed-matting or 
“tapestry.” Loosing her, he fixed the torch in the 
ground and took up one of these heaps. 

“They roll themselves in this, to sleep,” he said. “It 
will make a substitute for a door.” 

She mechanically helped him to fix it across the open¬ 
ing. Like revelers in a Continental carnival, the natives 
were too much excited to settle down for the night; the 
noise outside was still boisterous. 

Alan, the same primitive tingling in his blood, talked 
rather wildly as he arranged the cover. 

“We are savages now! Conventions don’t count here. 
As you remarked, these may henceforth be our sole com¬ 
panions. And they regard you as my—wife—remem¬ 
ber!” Finishing his job, he turned round, his eyes glit¬ 
tering in the dim light. “You must play up, too, for— 
for your own sake. . . . What is it, Barbara? . . . 
What’s the matter?” 

By the flickering torchlight, he saw her face go sud¬ 
denly white, her eyes cling, as if fascinated, to his. He 
caught both her wrists, pulling her close, his breath com¬ 
ing fast, his hands not steady. 

“What is it?” he repeated hoarsely. “Why—do you 
look at me—like that ?” 

“W-we—can’t stay—here!” she muttered again, not 
moving in his grasp. 

“But we—we’ve shared a hut before—all these weeks! 
Why are you afraid now? Tell me!” He bent over 
her. “Tell me, Barbara-” 

“I can’t ... I don’t know . . . I—I’m not-” 

Desperately she tried to withdraw her hands and eyes 
from his. She felt powerless, as if she were slipping 



146 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


down some precipice into roaring torrents which would 
engulf her, sweep her away from every known land¬ 
mark. This was utterly different from that other night’s 
fear. Then it had been fear of him, and tangible. Now 
it was subtle, terrifying, and—of herself, in some strange 
way. 

He drew her suddenly closer; but, with all the strength 
of her will, she flung herself back in his grasp. 

“Don’t—touch me! I don’t—understand— 1 — Oh! 

. . . Alan—help us both!” 

The cry was one of desperation. It startled him. For 
a long moment he gazed deep within her darkened eyes, 
the blood mounting in his face, throbbing in his temples, 
his very lips trembling. Then, almost violently, but with 
a strange look of exultation, he let her go. 

“I’ll go and see if—if—all’s safe outside,” he stammered. 

She heard him leave the hut; and she sank down in the 
far corner, trembling violently. . . . She heard him enter 
later; and she buried her head in her arms. 

He threw himself down across the threshold without a 
word. 

From outside, the noise of the revelers still came to 
their ears, growing gradually fainter . . . and fainter 
. . . until, at last, silence fell. 

VIII 

Barbara was sitting cross-legged upon the shore 
of the lagoon. By her side lay the contents of a 
diminutive work-bag, upon her knees a shapeless affair 
of gray homespun. 

The subtle workings of a woman’s mind impelling 
certain actions sometimes surpass even her own com¬ 
prehension. Had Barbara been asked why, on the very 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


147 


day of their return from the natives’ settlement, she had 
ransacked Aunt Dolly’s luggage, selected one of that 
rotund lady’s voluminous skirts and begun to rip the 
seams, she might have given the obvious reason, but 
never the true motive. That was vague, shadowy, even to 
herself; as vague and shadowy as the new peculiar con¬ 
sciousness of her companion. Yet both sprang, in oppo¬ 
sition to each other, from the same hidden source. 

After that memorable night, they had walked back 
together early next morning, Alan for the most part 
silent, Barbara talking feverishly of the natives’ feast, 
music, rites—anything to prevent awkward pauses. 
From that day another paradoxical phase opened before 
them. For, though they now had many surface inter¬ 
ests in common to heighten their companionship, the 
wall between was yet more strengthened. And, this 
time, it was the girl who unconsciously built up the 
crumbling bricks with hasty fingers, not daring to look 
at that yawning precipice beyond. 

Yet, although resolutely replacing any fallen bricks, 
the wish to pull them down, to win the intimacy pre¬ 
viously denied her, increased a hundredfold. Daily, as 
she became more contented with her strange life, more 
engrossed by its occupations, did her companion absorb 
more completely her subconscious mind. She only 
occasionally realized this. Then, with a sharp stab half 
of fear, half compunction, she quickly forced her thoughts 
away, focussing them resolutely upon the old life rapidly 
fading into distance. 

The ease with which the past slipped away, the grow¬ 
ing fascination of this wild existence among primitive 
surroundings, became alarming. She felt at times intoxi¬ 
cated with it all—the subtle perfumes and radiant colors, 


148 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


the languorous heat, cool night breezes, the wonders of 
sea and forest, the mysterious excitement which seemed 
to make every hour so vivid. . . . Never realizing the 
irrevocability of the change, working like leaven within, 
she clutched at old recollections, as a drowning man will 
grasp at elusive seaweed—the memory of Hugh becoming 
the chief anchor in this chaotic sea, which rose daily 
higher. 

She was doing this now, as she opened the last seam in 
the gray cloth; yet her ears were ever alert, listening to 
the lively whistling which came from the new hut now 
receiving its finishing touches. 

Presently she held out the pieces of material, con¬ 
templating them with knitted brow, then laying them in 
turn against an outstretched leg. Acting upon some 
sudden impulse, she scrambled to her feet, dropping 
scissors and cloth, and hurried toward the sound. 

They had built two parallel bamboo huts adjoining 
the old one. The idea was to use the original for kitchen 
or larder, the central one for a sitting-room, reserving 
the third for sleeping apartments. After a considerable 
amount of hard work, lashing the interlaced canes and 
palm-leaves together with fiber from suitable forest trees, 
the little abode was turning out a great success. 

Croft, mounted upon a pile of luggage, was completing 
the roof when she appeared. She came close to the ladder 
of suit-cases and watched him, smiling. 

“Alan,” she said presently, “will you lend me a pair of 
breeches ?” 

The whistling abruptly ceased, and the ladder swayed 
perilously. He looked down, laughter wrinkling the lines 
round his eyes. 

“Breeches! What the devil-” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


149 


“I want them for a pattern.” 

“A pattern?” 

Barbara blushed a little, and he threw some leaves 
down upon her. 

“You bold parson’s daughter! Cover your blushes in 
those.” 

“You have a—another pair; haven’t you?” she asked, 
ducking her head. 

“You don’t imagine you’d get any if I hadn’t?” He 
took a flying leap from his perch, landing by her side. 
“Does Eve covet Adam’s fig-leaves, now ?” he con¬ 
tinued, giving her a quick amused glance. “Are you 
renouncing feminine charms?” 

Whether he penetrated with one random dart to those 
vague and shadowy motives, she could not tell. Certain 
it is that the blush deepened in her sunburned cheek; 
and equally certain was the light which momentarily 
filled his eyes, as he turned away toward the doorway. 

“Here you are!” he cried, presently emerging again 
with an old tweed pair considerably the worse for wear. 
“My gods would have thee return them unto me. They 
are very torn and may be slightly large for you-” 

“I don’t want to wear them! These will do all right.” 
She took them from him and was moving away, when 
he laid his finger in the crook of her arm. 

“The inside entrances are finished now. Come and 
see,” he said, leading her into the old hut. 

She went through the neat little doorway into the 
central room, looking round at the window apertures and 
cool shadiness with the critical pleasure of a joint- 
architect. In her face also was the pride of the house¬ 
wife, full of private, visionary schemes. 

“Isn’t it jolly ? We can make it so cozy!” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


150 

“When we have made more furniture and brought in 
that from the old ’bus,” he agreed. 

That he could touch lightly now on what had brought, 
with its merest thought, such agonies of tragic memories 
and baffled hopes, was significant. 

They passed into the sleeping hut, a tiny square of 
which formed one compartment, and Barbara uttered a 
quick exclamation. 

“What is it ?” he inquired. 

“You—there’s no connection between!” 

He looked down at her curiously, unaware that all 
those weeks only the knowledge of his nearness, with but 
an incomplete partition dividing them, had enabled her 
to sleep tranquilly in face of possible native treachery. 
This absolute separation brought sudden apprehension, 
and she spoke impulsively as usual. 

“If the natives came, you would seem very far off!” 

Without replying, he took out his clasp-knife and led 
her to the dividing wall between the two little rooms. 
“Where shall I put it? Here?” Lightly drawing the 
knife across the bamboo he partly severed a few canes. 
As he leaned forward, his left hand tightened upon her 
bare elbow. . . . Swiftly the same wild tremor shot 
through her frame which had alarmed her with its mag¬ 
netism in the natives’ hut; and with it came an echo of 
the lifelong conventions in which her years had been 
steeped. She drew away from him, hurriedly. 

“No! Don’t do it. I—it’s better not. Please don’t!” 

Slowly he turned round, and his gray eyes pierced hers. 
She lowered them in hot confusion. Dropping the knife, 
he took her by the shoulders; in his mind, also, the 
memory of that night among the natives—one of the 
sign-posts in both their lives. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


I 5 i 

“Which do you really mean, Barbara ?” 

“I mean—that: don’t!” 

“Why not?” 

She could not reply. His nearness set her blood racing. 
She looked round the little room like a frightened caged 
bird. 

Then, no word being spoken, she felt the touch of his 
fingers on her throat. He raised her chin, turning her 
face upward, so that she was bound to meet the close 
scrutiny of his eyes or shut her own. The precipice 
seemed to yawn wide at her feet . . . the wall to crumble. 
. . . Sudden terror possessing her, she seized his hand, 
trying to pull it away, gasping: 

“L-let—me—go!” 

Abruptly he loosed her; and she turned and fled. 

He remained where he was, motionless, a dark smol¬ 
dering fire burning deep in the eyes she had feared to 
meet. Presently he turned to the “window” overlook¬ 
ing the lagoon, and gazed out beyond the distant reef 
as if seeing horizons far away, limitless, unbounded by 
any reef of coral, untouched by the leveling hand of 
civilization. . . . Then his gaze, coming back to realities, 
rested upon the girl seated near the shore; and to his face 
came the same arrogant, conquering look which had been 
there after his long vigil on their first night upon the 
island. . . . 

Barbara had returned to her task, every nerve tingling, 
full of vague fear. Desperately she sought to banish 
thought, absorbing her mind with the self-imposed work 
in hand. Utilizing his breeches for a pattern, she cut 
up Aunt Dolly’s skirt into something resembling their 
shape. Afterward, she sat for some time with her eyes 
fixed upon the rents in the rough tweed. . . . 


152 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Although the wall was to be built up stronger than 
ever, the mending of a helpless man’s torn garments 
surely could not matter? 

A little later she returned to prepare the supper, with 
a patched pair of breeches upon her arm—the patches 
consisting of quite contrasting material. She handed 
them, rather diffidently, to their owner. Her fears over 
the crumbling wall were annulled, however, by one 
glance at his indifferent face. He took his repaired 
property without the least surprise. 

“I hoped you would do that,” he coolly remarked. 
“I have some torn shirts, too, if you have enough 
cotton ?” 

Thus it came to pass that the management of his 
limited wardrobe gradually became one of her employ¬ 
ments. Tony Field’s prophecy to Aunt Dolly never 
recurred to her mind. ... It proved strangely pleasant, 
during his absences in search of food, to mend and wash 
for him. . . . 

From a pocket-book diary they were able to keep 
count of the days and nights which flitted by so rapidly 
now. The natives left them alone; save when, at Croft’s 
command, they brought rolls of reed-matting, or swords, 
spears, implements. Only one, as he knew well, still hid 
defiance under the cloak of subjection, biding his time. 

Thus, for a while, all danger seemed past. Barbara, 
blissfully unconscious of any flaw in this pact of friend¬ 
ship, lost her fear of these childlike folk. Having proved 
the effect of a random shot from the revolver, she felt 
safe. 

By means of tools saved from the wreck, and native 
implements, Croft made certain rough objects of furniture 
to supplement those brought from the aeroplane cabin. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


153 


With matting upon the ground, flowers and ferns deftly 
arranged, Barbara’s photograph of Hugh—the only pic¬ 
ture they possessed—upon the wall, the new “sitting- 
room” soon presented a home-like appearance. In her bed¬ 
room stood a cabin cupboard converted into a combined 
chest-of-drawers-dressing-table-washstand. A brainy 
construction of wood, matting and aeroplane canvas 
formed a bed, the fleece lining from her coat being 
adroitly turned into a mattress. 

The week before Christmas found them, therefore, 
fitted into their surroundings with extraordinary ease; 
much as the instruments of an orchestra, different though 
they appear, blend in one harmonious whole. The great 
Orchestra of Life, ascending all around them here with 
their glorious freedom and that which worked within 
their hearts, swept them up with it, ever closer to its 
hidden keynote. Only the preliminary bass blasts of 
tragedy were audible at first, filling the air with their 
fear “motif” and the knowledge of dangers yet to come. 
But, in time, the sweet faint melody penetrated softly 
through, growing more distinct, more dominant—fasci¬ 
nating them, overmastering them with its haunting 
rhythm, so that all else slowly faded into subservience. 
The present alone seemed sufficient. An era of peace had 
come, of pleasant companionship and healthy employ¬ 
ment. 

Barbara was basking in the peace which, mirage-like, 
surrounded her. After that day upon which the new hut 
was completed, the holes in the hidden wall were no more 
than chinks. Having long ago given up any attempt to 
discover the working of her companion’s mind, she was 
content in the phase of surface friendship now existing 
between them. 


154 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


One evening, shortly before Christmas Day, having 
prepared their supper, she wandered down to the shore, 
waiting for Alan’s arrival. Sitting idle upon a rock, she 
watched the spray and foam glistening in the sunshine 
against the distant reef, her thoughts occupied by a 
variety of small things—chief among them being a cot¬ 
tonless future! The constant mending of their combined 
wardrobe had drained her slender resources of thread. 
Pins had been resorted to that day. Alan sat on one and 
swore loudly; she smiled lingeringly over the recollec¬ 
tion. . . . 

Her face sobered and she leaned forward, then rose 
quickly to her feet. The tide, which does not alter much 
in the Pacific, was at its highest. Slowly moving through 
the clear water, not far from the shore, appeared a large 
gray outline suggesting in its general shape an airship. 
Barbara drew in her breath quickly, watching the silent 
bulk glide slowly by, until, making a large circuit, it 
disappeared in the direction of the reef. 

It was, she guessed, a shark. 

For the first time the remembrance dawned upon her 
of islands in the Pacific Ocean being often shark-in¬ 
fested ; the recollection brought, in a flash, full realization 
of the risks Alan took when he swam with her to land. 

With another chaotic tumult of mind, she remembered 
Alan’s further risks when salving all necessities for their 
comfort, his stubborn refusal of her offers of help, his 
stringent commands against bathing in the lagoon. . . * 
She realized, too, his consideration in not mentioning this 
horrible danger to add to her dread of those which already 
menaced their lives. 

A wave of gratitude—or admiration—swept over her, 
and she covered her face, hiding the hot involuntary blush, 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 155 

shutting out the sudden, unbearable glory of sky and 
sea. . . . 

Presently, lowering her hands, she turned her glowing 
face inland. . . . With a gasp, she grew rigid. 

A heavy cloud of smoke hung in dense plumes over 
the hilltop! Even as she looked, a long jagged flame 
leapt up . . . then another, and another. . . . The beacon 
was on fire! 

She gazed at it, fascinated. What did it mean ? Rescue 
at last? The rescue for which they had looked, and 
longed, and lived, all these weeks and months. . . Sud¬ 
denly, like a heavy cloak, all the previous excitement and 
exultation fell from her. 

A feeling as of a cold wind, full of vague foreboding, 
chilled her heart in that warm evening air. 

IX 

Near the blazing fire stood Croft. His hands hung 
loosely at his sides; his gaze was fixed upon the distant, 
heaving water. At the sound of the girl’s hurrying steps, 
he turned quickly. The apprehension in her face, instead 
of the wild hope he expected, found a reflection in his 
own, together with a curious leaven of disappointment 
and—unmistakably—relief. 

“A ship!” he announced briefly. 

“Is it coming?” 

“No.” 

Silently they looked at each other: the man inscrut¬ 
able as ever, the girl clasping and unclasping her hands, 
her lips a little tremulous. In the turmoil of her emotions, 
she sank upon the ground at last, and buried her head in 
her hands. 

Croft looked at her, his own feelings in much the same 


156 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


chaotic state. The hope of once again playing his part 
among his fellow-men—dear to a man of action—of 
achieving the ambitions ruthlessly destroyed at the very 
moment of attainment, had been raised and dashed almost 
simultaneously. But in that same moment he faced the 
full knowledge of what all this Eden-like existence 
meant to him—the immensity of his increasing hopes, 
bitter-sweet in their uncertainty. And, as the flames 
ascended, he faced abruptly the probable termination of 
it all! 

He controlled, but not without difficulty, the emotions 
rioting within his heart, when those tense few minutes, 
fraught with so much meaning—such crucial pages in the 
Book of Fate—relaxed. When the far-off spiral of smoke 
faded into the clouds, as the distant vessel vanished, he 
leaped upon a boulder and threw his arms wide. The 
gesture might have been a welcome to freedom, or an 
acquiescence in the inevitable; in either case it savored 
of “kismet.” 

Barbara glanced up at him. There seemed something 
familiar in his poise and action. . . . The memory of a 
foolish, far-off dream in England recurred to her mind. 
She had been lost in the darkness; when, calling for 
Hugh, she had reached the light, the entrance had been 
barred by this man’s figure and outflung arms. . . . 

He turned suddenly toward her. 

“I am sorry,” he said. “I feared it would upset you— 
to-day.” 

“Why to-day?” she asked curiously. 

A look of incredulity crept into his face. 

“It is December twentieth. Wasn’t that to be your— 
wedding-day ?” 

She sank back, staring at him blankly. Twice she 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


157 

opened her lips to speak, but no words came. At last, 
slowly, she turned her gaze seaward. 

“It was!” she murmured. “I—had—forgotten.’’ 

Again her head drooped into her hands. 

Low as the words were, he heard them. A wild joy 
flashed through him. Because he dared not trust himself 
or his voice, he left her—dashing, with throbbing pulse, 
toward the palm grove. Was there a singing in the air 
around, as if every bird upon the island had mistaken 
coming night for the dawn, or was it the inward song of 
his heart? 

Throwing off his clothes, he plunged into the river, 
swimming as if his life depended on it. Then he floated 
slowly, luxuriously, on his back, gazing up through the 
overhanging foliage into the golden evening light. 

“Mine!” he cried aloud. “Mine—mine—mine!” 

The ripple of the water and the soft rustle of bamboo 
were his only answer. He scrambled out; pressed the 
moisture from his thick hair; then laughed aloud, as he 
threw himself down upon the ground, letting the breeze 
dry his gleaming limbs—hiding his face among the soft 
moss. . . . 

For long Barbara sat where he had left her, without 
looking up, though knowing that she was alone. She 
faced her shrinking soul for the first time; the beacon 
burned itself out beside her; the sun sank lazily in a sky 
aflame. 

Until to-day she had taken for granted the supposition 
that, underneath the growing enchantment of this land, 
the craving for Hugh and rescue still predominated. . . . 
Full of shame, she realized this supposition to have been 
but a bubble burst at this first test. She understood, 
with a sense of shock, the small space now occupied by 


*58 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Hugh in her thoughts. Yet—he seemed, in memory, as 
dear as ever. Tears brimmed in her eyes: she realized, at 
last, how this very dearness proved its vast separation 
from love. ... 

Her imagination pictured to-day as it would have 
been. She saw Darbury Church decorated with flowers, 
the bridesmaids, the cobbler’s wife thumping out the 
Bridal March from Lohengrin, her mother in tears, 
Hugh’s elderly parents all smiles, Hugh himself with his 
bright crisp hair, the shade over the left eye, waiting at 
the altar. . . . By now the ceremony would be over, as 
time counted here; they would have left together for 
that much-disputed honeymoon. To-night would have 
been her wedding-night. . . . 

She drew in her breath sharply, looking down at the 
dancing waves, the gleaming coral, the palms. Had that 
passing vessel received their signals, in a short time this 
would all have become as a dream, the pictured ceremony 
the tangible fact. . . . 

Like a bird newly aware of freedom after narrowly 
escaping capture, she stood up and again looked around 
with lingering eyes, which now knew how close a 
hold the brilliant scene had upon her heart. If ever 
rescue came, it would bring pangs of grief instead of the 
unalloyed joy she had supposed. . . . Again her thoughts 
turned to Hugh, wondering what were his feelings to-day. 
. . . And her sensitive heart smote her, overwhelming 
her with renewed shame. . . . 

When at last she returned to the hut, it was empty. 
Entering her little room, the sight of Croft’s contrivances 
for her comfort brought back the memory of what she 
had seen in the water; brought, also, the same sense of 
rapturous gratitude. . . . Hardly conscious of the reason. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


1 S9 

she fought against it with some miserable idea of its 
disloyalty to Hugh. 

Thought was becoming an unbearable confusion. Hur¬ 
riedly she set about laying supper, hoping vainly to still 
the awakened depths; then sought further occupation. 
Her glance fell upon her luggage. With sudden decision, 
probably induced by a hazy idea of recapturing the 
instincts of civilization to combat unruly emotions, she 
seized a box and opened it. . . . 

When presently Croft returned, he was met on the 
threshold by a wistful-eyed figure clothed in something 
soft and white and altogether womanly, instead of the 
blouse and old short skirt. He stopped abruptly; then with 
rather grim lips, smiled. 

“So we returned to civilization in spirit, if not in fact?” 

His uncanny knack of reading her motives caused her 
to give him, as usual, the swift deep-sea glimpse which 
he sought. But the glimpse to-night lengthened, widen¬ 
ing into a stare of astonishment. 

“What have you done, Alan ?” 

“Done? Bathed and—oh, yes! 1 cut my hair. It 
was getting so dashed long-” 

She broke into irrepressible laughter. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling his head. 

“It looks as if you had used blunt garden-shears!” 

He tried, ineffectually, to smooth the jagged tufts, 
which stuck out rakishly from his temples, or rose upright 
on the top of his head. “I only had my clasp-knife.” 

Her laugh subsided, an expression almost maternal 
creeping into her face. 

“After supper I will cut it properly for you.” 

He looked momentarily astonished. “All right. But 
we must be quick, or it will be too dark.” 


160 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

“There’s a moon.” 

“H’m! Don’t think I fancy hair-cutting by moon* 
light. Sounds horribly unsafe!” 

She laughed again. This trifling amusement was what 
she craved—anything to banish reflection! 

When the meal ended, she disappeared into her room, 
returning with scissors and something white and lacy. 

“What’s that?” Alan demanded, eying the white ma¬ 
terial with suspicion. 

“Only a petticoat. To put round your shoulders.” 

“My shoulders! But—surely that’s the wrong place 
to wear it?” 

“Come outside and sit down,” she retorted, feeling for 
once in the position of “top-dog.” 

He seated himself obediently upon the rock outside 
the hut, allowing her to fold the petticoat round him for 
a barber’s sheet. Taking the lacy ends gingerly between 
his fingers, he pulled them across his chest. Then, 
unexpectedly, he threw back his head to look into the 
face bending above him, before she could lower her eyes. 
And he surprised an expression which sent the blood 
tingling through his veins. . . . 

“You must sit still!” she exclaimed hurriedly, in con¬ 
fusion. “Or I may cut you. Will—will you please bend 
your head? That’s better. Fix your eyes on the reef, 
and keep rigid.” 

Like a carved image—if images ever are carved 
swathed in petticoats—he sat in silence, giving no outward 
sign of the tumult rioting within. Only the “snip, snip,” 
of the scissors sounded in the still air. 

Barbara was feeling unhinged after the events of the 
day—full of strange emotions which she could not fathom. 
There was something extraordinarily attractive, unusually 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


161 


gentle, about her companion to-night. The rough dark 
hair seemed characteristic of him; it was vital, full of 
wiry strength and unexpected little twists . . her fingers 
lingered over it, almost caressingly. The sound of his 
voice roused her from her dreaming. 

“When will your hair need cutting, Barbara ?” 

“Oh ! Never! I mean, that is, I—I can do it myself/’ 

“It is like a dark cloud,” he said musingly. “I saw it 
all, loose and rippling-” 

“When ?” sharply. Why were her fingers so unsteady ? 

“On our first night here.” 

A wave of red suffused the face behind him, and she 
made no reply: a tuft of hair near one of his ears seemed 
to be engrossing her attention. He fell silent again, too, 
acutely conscious of the fingers lightly touching his head. 

“I wonder,” he began irrelevantly again, “what is hap¬ 
pening now in England. Do you long for it all, Bar¬ 
bara—the crowded towns, the gaiety? It’s probably 
snowing, and the London shops are bright for Christ¬ 
mas.” He paused. The hand with the scissors had 
dropped to his shoulder, and she stood very still. He 
turned his head to look up at her. “ ‘Vast cities’ were 
your idea of life; weren’t they? It’s cruel for you to 
be here—to-night of all nights—cutting my old hair; 

when-” He stopped again, his eyes, narrowed a little, 

closely watching her expressive face. 

“It’s worse for you,” she said softly. “Alan—I want 
to tell you something.” 

“Well?” 

She looked up slowly. For one mad moment an over¬ 
whelming desire possessed her to clasp that dark head in 
her arms, bow her own upon it, and sob out all the pent- 
up troubles of her heart—all the old lonely bitterness, 




162 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

and the new bewildering self-revelations experienced 
to-day. 

“What is it ?” he asked, breathing rather quickly at what 
he saw in her eyes. 

“I saw a shark to-day. And,” hurriedly, “I—oh, Alan! 
I realized all you have done for me, all you have risked, 
and spared me-” 

“All my invisible halo in fact ?” 

She ignored the flippancy. “And I feel simply full 
of—of-” 

“Of—what, Barbara? What?” 

“Gratitude-” 

“Gratitude!” He turned away, with a short laugh. 

“I can do so little in turn to make things tolerable 
for you here,” she went on, in the warmth of her heart. 

“Your life was so full-” 

He looked round again quickly. “No fuller than yours 
with the man you-” 

“Ah!” she interrupted passionately. “Don’t! I—know.” 

Her voice went into silence. For a long time he sat 
watching the darkness creep swiftly over the water, his 
hands tightly clenched upon the petticoat. 

A fierce craving for advice, sympathy, even disap¬ 
proval, so long as she could unburden her agitated mind, 
mastered the girl. She took one of her old impulsive 
plunges. 

“I am so troubled!” she exclaimed suddenly, starting to 
snip rapidly and furiously. 

He seized the hand with the scissors and drew it back 
to his shoulder. 

“No priest could stand confession with that weapon 
leveled at his head! Tell me just what is troubling you,” 
he answered, his voice softening. “Loneliness?” 

The clasp of his fingers encouraged confidence. 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


163 


“No, no! Just what you have said, to-night. I don't 
long for it all. Oh, I know you must be horrified. But 
I don't! This wild life, this lovely island, seem to creep 
up and up, engulfing me, so that I—dread the thought of 
the old restricted existence. Alan, it’s terrible. It—it’s 
intoxicating—it frightens me! I never crave for the 
world and a wider sphere, as I did in Darbury. I know I 
ought to be pining for rescue; to long for—for—those at- 
home; to be unhappy. Eve tried, honestly! But ” 

Laughter interrupted her. He raised his free hand 
and took hers, holding both tightly on his shoulders. 

“Tried! Have you really? Then—you are happy 
here ?” 

“That’s the trouble; don’t you see? I don’t know 
why, but I am. I was even glad when the ship didn’t 
come to-night! It’s just as if there’s some spirit in this 

island which—draws one up and up- Do you think 

me utterly heartless ?” 

He laughed again; and she wondered at the exultant 
ring of it. 

“I think you’re a goose—waking up! Have you only 
just realized the—‘spirit’—on the island?” Then he be¬ 
came serious. “How could your unhappiness help those 
in England? They have long ago given us up for dead. 
Besides, no forced emotions are worth anything.” 

“No. That’s the chief point: they shouldn’t need to 
be forced. Hugh—once—called me heartless-” 

He drew her hands downward, pulling her up close 
behind him. 

“I’m going to talk quite straight, Barbara. I gather 
the real fact is—you are not fretting for—Hugh ?” 

She made no reply; but the fingers in his closed spas¬ 
modically. He went on, his voice low, and deeply 
earnest. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


164 

“Love can be forced least of all. If circumstances 
combine to prove that mistakes have been made, it is no 
good struggling against the knowledge! However pain¬ 
ful, it is better than a lifetime of vain regret. One of 
the cruellest tragedies in this funny old world is the case 
with which such mistakes can be made—unconsciously— 
all in good faith.” 

He turned his face upward, and caught the glint of 
tears in her eyes. “Ah, my dear! Don’t take it so much 
to heart.” 

She gave a strangled little sob. “He—cared. Hugh 
will ever be—faithful. He is the truest-” 

“Yes, I know; one of the very best. But marriage 
with him wouldn’t have satisfied your nature. You know 
that.” 

“Oh!” she cried, startled. “But I shall still marry 
him—if we get rescued. Please don’t think me so disloyal 
as all that!” 

He smiled over this third unconscious appeal for his 
good opinion. “D’you call it loyal, then, to carry out a 
compact when the very motive upon which it was founded 
has proved an illusion? You would be living a lie all 
your life—unfair to you both. Surely he wouldn’t wish 
it?” 

She remembered that, according to Tony Field, this 
man had “rummy ideas.” 

“You don’t quite understand,” she protested. “I am 
just as fond of him. It would still be the same.” 

“How could it be the same? You did not realize the 
illusion in the old days. You do now—your every word 
admits it!” 

She remained uncomfortably silent. The darkness was 
quickly descending upon them. Night birds flitted across 
the shadows, calling to one another, or darting swiftly 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


165 

after some prey; a few stars glimmered in the blue-black 
sky; the drowsing sea murmured its eternal song. Alan 
suddenly leaned his head back, resting it against her 
breast. 

“Barbara,” he said softly, “the love of man and woman 
is not fondness” 

She could not speak. The pressure of his dark head 
set a tumult of emotions loose within her. Her heart 
seemed to rise in her throat and throb there; her limbs 
trembled. In sudden panic she tried to free her hands, 
her womanhood realizing his manhood as it had never 
consciously done before. The instinct of the wild bird to 
flee and hide was hers. Her turmoil communicated itself 
to him, in that vibrant silence. He looked up into her 
face, seeing there what he had but glimpsed on the night 
in the natives’ hut. 

“Barbara!” he whispered shakily, “Barbara! Be true 
to yourself-” 

With a little cry, she wrenched her hands free. As he 
sprang to his feet she turned, and, without a word, fled 
into the hut. . . . 

He stood still for a minute; then he drew a quick 
unsteady breath, and strode to the shore, to pace up and 
down, up and down, far into the night. . . . 

Barbara lay awake throughout long hours, facing, in 
terrible isolation, the great question of sex. What she 
had dimly realized and vaguely feared, since that reveal¬ 
ing moment during their visit to the natives, now loomed 
up in its naked reality to alter the whole aspect of their 
life here together. She faced the true position: realized 
clearly that she and this man were cut adrift from all the 
safety of other human companionship, all the restraints 
of civilization, with this terrible, eternal attraction now 
menacing them. Escape from it was impossible. She 



166 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


understood now the nature of the abyss yawning below 
the precipice which had threatened her of late. This 
new knowledge illumined the past, even to the strange 
magnetic attraction, half-fear, in the early days of their 
acquaintance. It terrified her, shaking her confidence. 
Her one shield and protector in all they had faced now 
appeared in the light of the enemy against whom she had 
no ally! 

When she remembered the close clasp of his hands, the 
pressure of his head upon her breast, her pulses throbbed 
and her face burned. It must quit, she told herself repeat¬ 
edly: this delightful, impossible tenderness between them 
must be stopped at once. She must resolutely hide her 
womanhood, showing nothing but the sexless comrade! 

As soon as the soft light of dawn had entered the tiny 
room, she rose. Taking her scissors, she once more prac¬ 
tised the barber’s arts. Ruthlessly, her lips tightly set, 
she cut through handful after handful of her long thick 
hair, wasting no regrets upon the luxuriant tresses piling 
round her bare feet. 

So far, so good! But it happened that Barbara’s heart 
remained unshorn of its sex, with all its natural tendency 
to look well. When the hair was cut short to her neck, 
she hesitated; picked up the diminutive mirror; laid it 
down; picked up the scissors; hesitated again—then laid 
them down, and gave her head a vehement shake. The 
short waves and curls, free from all restraint, followed 
their own sweet will, waving piquantly around her small 
head, clustering about her ears. . . . 

After this operation, she drew out the gray breeches 
she had made, understanding now the motive prompting 
that hasty achievement—after which they had lain idle 
during the era of peace. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 167 

Clad in these, with a loose white blouse, she entered 
the sitting-room. 

Alan stood in the outer doorway, watching a bird 
preening its bright plumage on a rock. He turned in 
surprise at her early appearance; but the words of greet¬ 
ing died upon his lips. 

“What have you done?’’ he ejaculated, echoing her 
words of the previous night. 

She laughed self-consciously, giving her “bobbed” head 
a shake, eluding his eyes. 

“Oh! I—just thought I would cut my hair, too,” she 
replied, with elaborate carelessness. 

“All your beautiful hair!” he murmured, his gaze never 
leaving her. 

This was neither the tone nor the sentiment she wished 
to provoke. Resolutely strangling the surprise and de¬ 
light stirring rebelliously in her heart at this proof of his 
appreciation, she thrust her hands into the breeches pock¬ 
ets and sauntered toward him. She looked at his cut hair, 
his deeply tanned face, his straight nose—anywhere but 
his penetrating eyes. 

“Girls are out of place here!” she observed. 

He made no reply. She was uncomfortably aware of 
his piercing, as usual, straight to the heart of her subter¬ 
fuge. His lips twitched a little. This sudden decision, 
coming on top of such essential womanliness in the white 
frock of the night before, was full of revelation. 

A moment’s reflection, and he had decided on his own 
course. “I see. Henceforth, then, we are—two gay dogs 
together? What a good idea!” 

His tone was cool enough to reassure a dozen nervous 
women. She was conscious of a great relief as she joined 
him in the doorway. 


i68 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


X 

The next few days were strangely happy. After a 
visit away, a new house seems more home-like; or 
a friend doubly precious, imagined lost. So the faint 
chance of rescue caused their little hut to seem dearer, 
the wild free life more enchanting. The spirits of both 
had never been so high. The wall entirely disappeared 
between them, and a new delightful camaraderie took its 
place. Barbara, having conquered the sex problem with 
such sublime simplicity, cast it from her mind, surrender¬ 
ing herself wholly to the engrossing happiness of the 
moment. 

That her very subterfuge, proving all it did, had been 
the death-knell to her object, never entered her head. 

On Christmas Eve they collected arms-full of greenery, 
the girl clinging with unconscious pathos to the old cus¬ 
toms in which she had been reared. 

“Instead of church,” Alan remarked, dumping down 
his load near the doorway, “we will go for a picnic to the 
wood on the east coast.” 

It was the first time he had suggested such an outing 
together. An absurd, delightful exhilaration caused her 
to clasp her hands in a thrill that was ecstatic. 

“Ah!” she cried inconsequently. “Isn’t it all— 
beautiful?” 

“What?” he asked, yet knowing full well. 

“Oh—everything! Christmas—here! Freedom from 
Mr. Horne!” She sprang upon a suit-case, trails of vine 
in her hands, and laughed down at him. 

He came close to her, the same ecstasy lurking in his 
own eyes. 

“I wonder if you realize all you have irnplied?” 

“What?” She looked startled. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 169 

‘TU tell you to-morrow. I’m going to tell you lots of 
things to-morrow, Barbara.” 

She was conscious of a tremor in the ground she 
thought so sure beneath their feet. Hastily springing 
down, she moved the suit-case to another spot, and 
c 1iV~i^d up again with more vine. 

11 seems strange,” she remarked, turning the subject, 
“that the only other human beings here know nothing 
about Christmas.” 

“They have their own festivals, which are equally 
important to them.” 

“But doesn’t it seem extraordinary? It’s as if the 
twentieth century were living side by side with prehistoric 
days! I wonder why it has always been the custom to 
deify something?” 

“It is an inborn instinct,” he replied. “However 
strong or self-reliant people may be, there is always an 
inherent instinct of dependence upon something stronger. 
And because that something is an unknown force, men 
try to capture it, cage it, personify it in some way. These 
old superstitions are only forerunners of later creeds and 
customs.” 

“The trouble is,” she said rather warmly, “that each age 
gets so embedded in its own special groove of orthodoxy 
that little but the'outward observances remain. D’you 
know what I sometimes think, when I look back at—the 
world ?” 

“What ?” He handed her some ferns. 

“That if Christ came to earth again to alter any of His 
teaching, the Church would be among the last to recognize 
Him!” 

“What shocking ideas for a parson’s daughter! But 
it’s quite probable. It would be her well-meant zeal 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


170 

which would blind her. Dogma, doctrine, creeds—all 
the hundred things which have sprung up and proved 
substitutes for the one keynote comprising all His 
teaching!” 

" 'Keynote' again ?” she smiled down at him. 

"Yes,” he replied, meeting her eyes fully. "You are 
going to tell me to-morrow that you—too—have found it 
here, now!” 

She turned away, and fastened a vine-tendril to the 
bamboo. He watched her silently, noticing the change 
wrought in her by these past months. The wild-rose air 
had vanished: in its stead the warm blood flowed red 
beneath a sunburned skin; her limbs showed sturdy in 
their boyish attire; her feet were brown and hardened. 
Yet, where the depths were concerned, remained the old 
timidity which was, paradoxically, her greatest lure and 
protection. One false step and she would, he knew, be 
"off on the wing,” scared as a young partridge. But 
Alan’s small store of patience had been drained to the 
iast dregs. 

Finishing the decoration, she paused beside him, con¬ 
sidering the effect. Ferns and palm-leaves swayed in the 
corners; trailing greenery decorated walls and roof; 
flowers stood upon the cabin-table. 

"Cozy, isn’t it ?” she asked, looking up for his approval. 

"Very cozy!” he replied, looking only at her. "What 
a little home-maker you are.” 

She flushed, and again turned hastily away. 

"We’ll hang this remaining vine over the entrance, 
outside. Will you bring the suit-cases?” 

He carried out the substitute for a ladder; and up she 
sprang. Deftly, with the art of experience, she caught the 
trailing foliage up here, letting it hang in clusters there. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


171 

“And that middle cluster?” asked Alan, beside her. 
“Is that for mistletoe?” 

Her head rose quickly, as that of a young deer scenting 
danger. With a quick glance down at him, she stretched 
out her hand toward the bunch; but he put up a long 
arm to prevent its removal. And, in a flash, all the secur¬ 
ity of the past days fell to ruins. For, while she strove 
again to seize the vine-leaves, the suit-cases overbalanced, 
and she toppled down upon him. 

He caught her and held her. He clasped her close to a 
thumping heart, and buried his face in her hair. . . . 

For a moment she lay inert; then she began to struggle, 
gasping, sobbing. 

But his self-control was going. His grip became 
fierce; she felt his hot breath upon her neck. . . . 

“Alan!” she cried wildly. “For God’s sake-!” 

The fear, as of one drowning, in the cry, steadied his 
reeling senses. Still clasping her in his arms, he sank 
down upon the rock. His darkened eyes mesmerized her 
own; the abyss yawned wide at her feet . . . she was 
conscious only of being swept along, caught in some re¬ 
morseless torrent, toward the edge of the precipice . . . 
slipping, falling ... his lips were close to her own. . . . 

“Alan!” with almost superhuman effort she managed 
to gasp his name again. “I can’t bear it. No! No! Be 
merciful!” 

Faintly, with parched mouth, the desperate petition 
seemed wrung from her very soul. 

His arms relaxed abruptly, a subtle change coming 
into their grasp when he realized her trembling. 

“Why are you afraid?” he murmured unsteadily. 

She raised herself, her face very white under its sun¬ 
burn. 


172 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Don’t you see? If you do— this, how can I go on 
living with you here?” 

He smiled faintly, the mad tumult of his blood abating. 

“Where else would you live? With the natives for— 
chaperonage ?” 

She drew a sobbing breath, looking around with a 
pathetic gesture of helplessness which touched his heart. 
The passion faded yet more from his face. He pressed 
her against him again, this time protectively. 

“It’s a damned lonely position for you!” he exclaimed. 
Then he rose, with such precipitancy that she nearly fell. 
He began walking up and down outside the hut. 

Instead of hurrying away, she hesitated, watching him 
in bewilderment—conscious of a strange longing to 
remain near him, to saunter together on the shore, as was 
sometimes their habit at night. 

But when, at last, he paused near her, he made no such 
suggestion. 

“Go to bed,” he said rather curtly; “it’s late. And, 
Barbara, don’t lie awake all night, or cut off the rest of 
your hair! It’s all—useless.” 

With that he turned away, and went off alone to the 
beach, leaving her staring after him. 

Strangely enough, she did not lie awake this time. 
Those few passionate moments had embodied hours of 
emotional strain. The force which had seemed to be 
sweeping her from all moorings had caused her to 
struggle violently, both mentally and physically, to retain 
her own individuality, to prevent it from being sub¬ 
merged in his. His lips on hers would have been sheer 
physical pain, unbearable, overpowering. . . . After^ 
ward, a numbness fell upon her mind. She felt too des¬ 
perately tired to attempt coherent thought. This volcano 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


173 


upon which, nowadays, they lived, must take its course! 
Since the moment when she had seen the shark, a life¬ 
time of tumultuous emotions had whirled her mind and 
heart round like thistledown. Confused, yet subtly, 
gloriously elated, she slept till dawn. . . . 

A fusillade of sticks and stones roused her, but she did 
not see Alan. And a sudden overwhelming shyness re¬ 
strained her from calling to him. 

But there was no trace of last night’s passion about this 
man of a hundred moods when they met; and her self- 
confidence revived. While she was packing the old tin 
box with food, he arrived, fresh and damp from the river. 
He gaily deposited a large bundle at her feet, and wished 
her a merry Christmas. 

With surprise, she uncovered a cunningly contrived 
hammock made from tree-fiber, aeroplane canvas, and 
aerial! As this was exactly what she had often wanted 
upon hot afternoons, her pleasure was unbounded. 

“I have nothing for you, Alan!” she regretted, with 
compunction. 

‘‘Oh ? Well—we’ll see about that!” he replied enigma¬ 
tically; then hurried their departure. 

They walked quickly, saying little, over the rough 
ground which, covered with low scrub, sloped upward 
on the east of their bay. Before them in their widening 
horizon, as they mounted higher, the pale gray of dawn 
intensified, becoming tinged with pearly hues of cream 
and pink. The cream slowly deepened to yellow, the pink, 
merging into soft blush-rose, spreading out ever-lengthen¬ 
ing arms. When the high ground was reached, the glory 
of a luminous opal suffused the eastern sky, casting its 
myriad reflections into the water below, which rippled 
and sparkled like a dancing cloud of many-colored 


174 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


jewels. Gradually, as the two silently watched, the opal 
screen divided, and from the heart of its treasure-cave 
streamed long quivering shafts of gold, as the sun slowly 
emerged, rising majestically to his throne of glory. 

Barbara turned a face reflecting the sky’s radiance to 
her companion, finding so much more than the light of 
the dawn in the eyes which lingered on hers, that she 
looked away again, renewing the walk. 

This high ground declined gently to a long stretch of 
rough coral shingle and bare sand, with here and there 
a tiny grove of palms contrasting coolly with the glare 
of sea and sky. Beyond, one of the long arms of inland 
verdure sloped to the shore. It was a wild desolate 
scene of the brilliant-hued, primitive beauty which grips 
strangely the heart attuned to nature in her untamed 
moods. 

Alan waved toward the water, over which occasional 
little clouds of iridescent colors hovered, then disappeared. 

“Flying-fish!” exclaimed the girl, standing still to 
watch them. “Mustn’t they be tantalizing to an old shark 
just counting on his breakfast! I think I should rather 
like to be a flying-fish,” she added, walking on again. 

“Do you imply that you live among sharks ?” 

Her lips tilted upward in the provoking smile he knew 
so well. 

“Yes! Sharks which always expect their own way, 
the bullies!” 

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “fish forget how to fly; or 
no longer wish to, in time. What happens then ?” 

She looked seaward, with a tremulous little laugh. 

“I suppose then, they—go the shark’s way! He just 
swallows them up. And,” she said vehemently, “I hope 
he gets bad indigestion!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


175 


Alan laughed. “I don’t think a shark would swallow 
anything likely to give him indigestion!” he said mean¬ 
ingly. “It wouldn’t be at all what he wanted.” 

She did not reply; but walked on at a rapid pace, as 
if to crush both thought and conversation. 

They paused to rest and eat, in the eastern wood, 
meaning to remain there during the midday heat. The 
shady branches stretched out over the beach were wel¬ 
come to eyes dazzled by the glare without. The intoxica¬ 
tion of the morning’s beauties, their own radiant health 
and spirits, the strains of the wild sweet orchestra rising 
all around, lent enchantment to that little picnic. 

Barbara had, as it were, caught at reeds during the last 
few weeks, but they had broken in her grasp. Onward 
she was madly whirling. She knew it; could not save 
herself; could not quench that light in his eyes, and her 
own foolish weakness in his proximity. 

Abruptly, he went to her and took her by the shoul¬ 
ders, saying nothing, but gazing into her face as if 
searching for something he wished to learn there. 

Suddenly, apprehension in her eyes deepened to hor¬ 
ror; a cry burst from her lips; she became rigid in his 
hands. 

With such precipitate haste did the whole incident oc¬ 
cur that she could never afterward clearly remember how 
it happened that, in a flash, the face of the whole world 
changed. . . . She was conscious of a dark bulk, a sav¬ 
age face she knew well, looming suddenly up amid the 
trees—of a spear-arm uplifted, preparatory to hurling the 
weapon into the back of an unsuspecting enemy. . . . 

Her man was in danger! That was her only coherent 
thought. Instantly she had whipped out the revolver, 
and, with deadly calm, raised it. . . . 


176 


SINKERS IN HEAVEN 


A sharp report and a puff of smoke; a wild howl of 
pain and fear; then a stream of blood oozing from the 
black shoulder in front of her, as the smoke cleared away. 
Those were the outward impressions of which her mind 
was dimly aware; but they seemed unreal, of no account. 
She heard the spear fly wide into the tree at her side; then 
Babooma’s running footsteps and retreating cries. . . . 
Croft, astounded, had barely caught a glimpse of the dark 
face which he had often seen covertly watching him, be¬ 
fore it was momentarily blotted out in smoke. He started 
forward in hot pursuit; then, arrested by a choking cry, 
halted abruptly, and looked at the girl. . . . 

She stood motionless: her eyes, luminous as stars, 
fixed upon him, her mouth a little open, the still smoking 
weapon lying at her feet. It had been no mild idea of 
causing Babooma fear which had impelled her action, but 
a furious, savage desire to kill! She had hurled herself 
to the rescue, regardless of all else. 

Afterward, all power or desire to move seemed to leave 
her. A veil fell from before her eyes; and a brilliance 
streamed in, illuminating, scorching—full of such ecstasy 
that she stood as though transfixed, paralyzed with the 
wonder of it all, gazing upon him whom this brilliance 
had newly revealed. . . . 

The breath caught in the man’s throat; the blood raced 
madly through his veins; his eyes blazed, answering the 
glory of her own. 

Like the Wagnerian lovers after drinking of the love 
potion, they stood a few feet apart, under the sun-flecked 
foliage of the trees, awed for a moment by the miracle. 
She raised her hand at last, as if inviting. . . . The spell 
broke. 

Instantly his arms were around her. With an inarticu- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


177 


late cry, she was swept off her feet, clasped to his throb¬ 
bing heart, his burning lips pressed hers, her hands cling¬ 
ing round his neck ... all her individuality merged ir¬ 
revocably into his, as a stream, falling through arms of 
rock, merges into the resistless waves of the ocean. 

The sun was sinking, a fiery ball in an almost violet 
sky, its last rays shimmering golden-red across the water, 
when at last the two returned to the hut on that wonder¬ 
ful Christmas Day. A new world greeted their eyes at 
every turn. Never had reef or sea or sky appeared so 
splendid. The superb, absolute egotism of newly-found 
lovers enveloped them both: no thought save of each 
other disturbed the shining hours. Like one still walking 
in a dream-world, Barbara entered the central hut, gay 
with its decorations. The line of golden light entering 
with her pierced the dusk within; and, falling upon the 
opposite wall, drew her eyes unconsciously that way. 
. . . She stopped. 

Hugh’s face smiled down at her, with all its old con¬ 
fidence ! 

Violently the dream-world crashed around her as she 
met the faithful, dog-like look she knew so well. Had he 
been there in flesh and blood, she could hardly have been 
more disconcerted. She felt as a traitor might, when 
meeting the unsuspicious eyes of the sovereign he has 
betrayed. For, however faithful she might remain in 
word and deed to her bond, her heart would ever be trait¬ 
orous. His ring was still on her finger: it seemed to 
burn there, an outward sign of the world of fact with its 
prosaic realities, its duties, its sense of honor, its material¬ 
ism, its sacrifices. . . A cold foreboding swept over her. 
It was as if in the midst of glorious sunshine, a thunder- 


178 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


clap had sent its warning of storms not far away. . . . 
She sat down, propping her face upon her hands, in self- 
abasement—fearful, yet, behind all, exultant. . . . 

Thus Alan—after going to fetch water and remaining 
to bathe—found her, upon his return. He set down the 
basins, then bent over her. 

“What is the matter ?” 

She half drew away from his touch. Bending closer, 
he removed the hands from her head, and raised it back 
against his breast. 

“What’s troubling my dearest, on this day of days?” 

She looked up into the ardent gray depths so close 
above her; then at the photograph upon the wall. His 
look followed hers, and quick comprehension dawned. 

“Ah!” he ejaculated. “Well ?” 

“Don’t you see ?” she asked. “All this is—impossible!” 

His eyes hardened a little; and he loosed her. 

“You and I have gone too far, now, to draw back 
because of scruples, Barbara!” 

“They are not scruples! It is a matter of honor.” She 
half raised her left hand, showing the little band of dia¬ 
monds. 

With one swift movement he had seized the hand and 
ripped off the ring. 

“Honor be damned, then!” 

She sprang up, alarmed at his violence. He towered 
over her, his face blazing. 

“Do shed the remnants of the parson’s daughter, my 
dear girl! Face things squarely! You drifted into this 
engagement when a mere child, not realizing all it meant. 
As you developed, it ceased to fill your life. His nature 
did not satisfy yours. I saw that at once. But, until I 
knew your heart was free, I could do nothing—save keep 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


179 


away!” He laughed bitterly. “I have wanted you and 
craved for your love, day after day, night after night, 
all these damnable months here together like—like two 
icebergs in the Garden of Eden! Do you think now, 
when I have got it, I am going to lose it again? Would 
he or any sane man wish it—or expect it—after all this? 
Don’t you realize what—the world would—think—now ?” 

She looked puzzled over this last sentence, not having 
been acquainted with a malicious-minded world beyond 
her old horizon. But she knew the truth of every other 
word he uttered. Her awakened heart understood now 
the affectionate comradeship alone aroused by Hugh. 
Her whole nature yearned toward this man who had 
mastered it; her heart fluttered—wavered. The con¬ 
science warring against it made another dying at¬ 
tempt. 

“I—I can’t shatter a man’s lifelong faith. It would 
be murderous-” 

“Do you love me?” he interrupted, taking her firmly 
by the shoulders. 

“Ah! you—know it,” she breathed. 

“Yet you would put—this—between us, with no hope 
of rescue?” 

Loosing her abruptly, he turned and looked long at the 
pictured face. Then, with a stifled exclamation, he 
pulled it from the bamboo. Before she realized his mo¬ 
tive, he had torn the photograph into shreds, and scattered 
them upon the ground. 

“Alan!” she gasped, almost frightened by his vehe¬ 
mence. He wheeled, facing her with burning eyes. 

“I’m not a lap-dog! If we get rescued, we shall, of 
course, go straight to Hugh and tell him the truth. But— 
if not -” He suddenly threw his arms around her, 



180 


SINNERS IN HEAVE1N 


straining her to him. “Have you realized that proba¬ 
bility— now, Barbara? We may be here for ever—just 
you and I—where the mazes of civilization give way to 
Truth—where no laws exist save those of nature—no 
conventions!” He swept her off her feet, and his kisses 
burned upon her lips, her neck, her short hair. . . . Once 
more her life seemed to sink from her own keeping into 
his. . . . 

He set her down at last, still clasping her to him. 

“Doesn't—that—decide it all?” he murmured unstead¬ 
ily. “Don’t you understond that we have bigger issues 
to face—here—than useless scruples?” 

She turned in his arms, looking into his eyes through 
the gathering darkness. The distant thundering surf 
was the only sound; and it seemed to suggest approach¬ 
ing storms more terrible than any she had faced before. 
Freeing herself a little, she pressed him from her. 

“You have won your way—as usual, Alan. But— 
Ah! Be merciful!” As she had appealed before, so the 
cry came again from her unprotected heart. 

That pitiful entreaty and her surrender reached where 
resistance might have failed. The passion in his face 
faded a little; and, seeing this, she pressed her advantage. 

“Isn’t the present joy—sufficient? You are mine and 
I am yours. Don’t let us spoil the glory of it all!” 

For a long moment there was silence in the darkening 
hut. . . . 

Then this man, who had ever been wont to sweep 
aside all obstacles to his will, bent his head slowly, and 
kissed in turn the small hands clasped upon his breast. 

“We must keep our faith in each other—-whatever the 
future brings,” he whispered. And tenderly, almost 
reverently, he kissed her lips. 


PART THREE 


DEEP CHORDS 

I 

A ring of stakes, lolling drunkenly to one side, en¬ 
circled the hut, at a distance of about twenty yards. 
With a small rock for hammer, Alan was pounding them 
into the ground, during the hour before sunset. He had 
conceived the idea of building a palisade. This fired 
Barbara with ambitions for a garden. Every plant she 
admired in the forest was forthwith pulled up and 
planted round the hut. It usually died next day; where¬ 
upon she threw the dead root away, and cheerfully fetched 
another. 

“At any rate,” she protested, “they look pretty for a 
few hours. And it provides occupation.” 

Occupation! It was what they craved. Though 
neither confessed the fact to the other, both tacitly ac¬ 
knowledged the need. They seized on any excuse that 
would supply food for their thoughts, toil for their limbs, 
fatigue for body and mind. For, deep in the heart of 
each, below all the ecstasy of their joy together, lurked 
grim fear—not fear of each other, but fear of themselves; 
above all, fear of nature, of her smiling face and irrevo¬ 
cable laws. Resolutely, each buried the skeleton out of 
sight, covering it with a hundred pretty-colored reeds. 
But sometimes, unexpectedly, it stirred below the thick 
layers, stretched out its skinny arms. . . . 

181 


182 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I’ll bring the river down here some day,” the inventor 
of modern aircraft observed, thumping in a stake with 
his stone-age hammer. 

“Do!” she teased, scooping a hole for a fresh root. 
“Invite the lagoon up to meet it.” 

“If a little fresh-water canal could be diverted to the 
hut, it would save endless labor. Why are you smiling in 
that vacant manner?” 

“At a thought.” 

“Tell me. Or am I too young?” 

“Supposing Aunt Mary had beed wrecked here with 


“Oh! heaven forbid!” He turned a face of horror to 
where she sat upon the ground, knickerbockered legs 
stretched straight before her; the small face, alluring in 
its aureole of short curly hair, raised to watch him. 

“I wonder if you would both have fallen in love?” she 
continued. “Propinquity, you know. Aunt Mary 
doesn’t believe men and women can be together with¬ 
out-” She paused abruptly. This was a danger- 

mark. They were always appearing, as rocks in the 
calmest sea, when the tide goes out. He glanced quickly 
at her; then gave his stake a vicious blow. 

“It took a dashed lot of 'propinquity’ to make you suc¬ 
cumb to my charms!” 

“They were so well hidden!” she flashed. Whereupon, 
he left his work; seized her arms; and rolled her, kicking 
helplessly, in the sand. 

• “Yes,” she maintained breathlessly, when she had 
struggled free. “I loathed you.” 

“You did,” he agreed, twisting his finger in a little 
wave of hair on her neck. 

The touch, with the look that accompanied it, sud¬ 
denly thrilled her, banishing nonsense. She passed a 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 183 

hand round his head, drawing his brown cheek down to 
her own. 

“Alan/’ she murmured, “you have been a revelation. 
I thought you a bully, only intent upon getting your own 
way, regardless of everybody/’ 

“Well?” He laughed gently. “Haven’t I got it?” 

“Ah, but not until it proved to be my way too.” 

“Merely because I realized it would be worthless other¬ 
wise. I learned that first of all the many things you 
taught me.” 

“I ?” 

“Yes, you.” He raised her chin possessively. “Don’t 
you think you have been a revelation, too? And hasn’t 
the 'spirit’ of the island you spoke about been a revelation 
to us both ? It seems to me,” he laughed, “the only thing 
to save the world from being choked by materialism is to 
wreck it on a desert island! Make everybody begin life 
afresh, back in prehistoric days.” 

Barbara caught at this idea. “But,” she said, follow¬ 
ing the train of thought it engendered, “if all discontented 
people had the chance to come, wouldn’t every tree be 
crowded ?” 

“Not at all. Only a handful would arrive. The ma¬ 
jority are too peacefully asleep to realize they are being 
choked. Commercialism is the god they worship. Al¬ 
though, when there is nothing better to do, they go to 
church—in their best clothes.” 

“You are very bitter!” she exclaimed in surprise. 

“One sees the perspective of things from here,” he 
replied simply. “Look at marriages—the wretchedness of 
some, and the stuffiness of others! Think of the rotten 
motives which lead to them! I used to abhor the idea.” 

“You don’t now?” she smiled. 

“Well-” His answer was lost in her hair. . “But 


184 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


none of the 'obey’ nonsense! We shall prune the mar¬ 
riage service very carefully.” 

She raised her head with a little gasp. “You say 
that? Why—I used to imagine you a ‘Petruchio’!” 

“Eve thought a devil of a lot, here,” he said warmly. 
“I should beat a wife who obeyed me. It would awaken 
all my most brutal tendencies. Besides, it is absurd. 
The whole realm of nature is dual—male and female. 
To make one subservient to the other is ridiculous. Com¬ 
radeship ! That’s the only foundation. When it is prop¬ 
erly understood, the world will be more fit to live in. It’s 
coming. But there’s a lot of jealousy and misunderstand¬ 
ing to get rid of, yet.” 

Barbara was too much astonished to reply for a 
moment. To her, this man had ever been full of sur¬ 
prises ; but she had spoken the truth when she had called 
him a revelation. For, during the two months since 
Christmas, he had been so at every turn. Not until love 
opened her own eyes; until she knew the meaning of 
passion herself, and understood the tempestuous force of 
his, did she realize the strain under which he had been 
living. Since Christmas night the nature she had thought 
arrogant had revealed a thousand wonderful mysteries. 
As a tree, cold and hidden in the snows and frosts of 
winter, responds to the glory of spring, so he had opened 
in the glory of their love. 

“But,” he went on, with a change of tone, “it doesn’t 
appear as if a priest and ten bridesmaids are going to drop 
from heaven for our wedding!” 

She drew away from him, and clasped her arms round 
her raised knees. Mountains, dark and threatening to 
those whose way lies across them, are little heeded when 
shrouded in mist, below which the sun shines. But now 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


185 

and then a jagged peak thrusts through; and, with the 
journey’s progress, more appear behind. . . . Generally, 
these frequent peaks were instinctively shunned; but 
to-day Alan went on recklessly. 

“After all, marriage was made for man, like all other 
conventions. We are not their slaves. What do forms 
and ceremonies matter—here? They are often tosh. A 
pauper marries an heiress, and vows to endow her with 
all his worldly goods! If he did, he would have to take 
the clothes off his back and go stark naked. You and I 
would vow to forsake all others, when there is nobody 
here to forsake. You would hardly want to elope with 
Babooma? If you did, I should soon catch you. That’s 
another point: we couldn’t separate if we wanted to! So 
what would be the good of a wedding? Of vows we 
couldn’t possibly break?” 

She sprang to her feet, breathing quickly. 

“Alan! What are you saying ? Don’t! Don’t!” 

“Why not?” he asked, getting up too. “We can’t 
remain blindfolded for ever.” 

The mists fell from a huge mountain-peak, and the 
color ebbed from the girl’s face. 

“Ah!” she murmured, clasping her hands. “Isn’t the 
present—perfect? Don’t precipitate-” 

He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. 
“We are only human,” he said, in a low voice; “and, 
Barbara—I want my wife!” 

She pressed her clenched hands against him, hiding her 
head upon them. “Oh, not yet! Don’t think me obtuse, 
Alan. I have thought, too, and—and feared-” 

“What have you feared ?” 

She did not reply for a moment; he waited, motionless. 

When every accustomed bulwark of life has been 


186 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


demolished, the foundations of a fresh building are laid 
necessarily in a troubled soil composed of struggle, temp¬ 
tation, agonies of uncertainty. But to continue postpon¬ 
ing the new building only causes the fragments of the 
old to rot more as the days slip by. To each, situated as 
they were, the problem confronting them loomed even 
larger. Facts out here assumed a vastly different nature 
from that which they wore in civilization. There, they 
were clothed in a hundred hues; here they were crude, 
bare. . . . The undeveloped girl, blindly groping after 
the “hidden want” in a materialistic environment, had 
gone for ever. As the ripened corn sprung from its 
buried seed, the woman, sublime in her love, glories in 
the growing courage of the inner self she had tried to 
stifle, had arisen. 

“We have found the true keynote here,” she murmured 
brokenly at last, “and we must keep it tuned aright. 
I wouldn’t, for the world, spoil the beauty of everything.” 

“You couldn’t—ever,” he whispered into her hair. 
“But love is a terrific force which can’t be turned on and 
off like hot water; or compressed into narrow precon¬ 
ceived channels.” 

He suddenly threw his arms round her and strained her 
to him. “Barbara! why should we be done out of our 
rights ? We’ve been chucked out of the world; stripped 
of everything that made life worth living. But now we 
have discovered the greatest treasure of all. Are we to 
give that up because of—scruples ? By God!” with sud¬ 
den anger he loosed her, clenching his hands, “I won’t! 
I’m damned if I’ll agree to that! It isn’t fair. You say I 
always get my way. Well—some time-” 

She met calmly the passion and threat in his eyes. 
These untamed forces no longer alarmed her, as they 
would have done six months ago. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


187 

“Alan!” she protested, holding out her hand. He 
ignored it, gazing still upon the peculiar radiance of her 
face. She went to him, lifting both hands to his shoul¬ 
ders, her lips tremulous. “There is more to be consid¬ 
ered . . . not—not only ourselves. . . . My darling! 

don’t you realize we are man and woman, and-” Her 

flushed face sank on his breast. “Don’t you see?” she 
whispered. “Others! Not—'scruples.’ ” 

A long silence succeeded her broken words. His arms 
closed around her again, and again he hid his face in her 
hair. 

Counting odds had never been Croft’s way. In ancient 
days, had he proved himself beloved by the woman of 
his desire, he would have caught her to his saddle and 
ridden away at a gallop. Perhaps it was the first time 
in his life that, deliberately, he stood aside, placing a 
decision, which vitally affected him, in the hands of 
another. 

He raised his head at last; and as he pulled her hands 
down into his own his face looked strangely drawn. 

“God help us both, Barbara!” he muttered huskily. 
“For we are in the very hell of a position.” There was a 
strange blending of fear and adoration in the eyes of 
both, while they looked upon each other. “But I—I 
swear I’ll—I’ll never force you to—anything. Always 
remember that. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t—let me 
forget! I’m so damned human,” he added, with naive 
pathos. 

For the first time since she knew him, she heard a lack 
of confidence in his tone. Conscious of those forces of 
nature against which they were but puppets, all the 
woman in her rose to meet him. 

“We can never lose faith in each other, Alan. That 
will help us. But-” she looked at the dearly loved 


188 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


figure. For one illuminating instant, all that marriage 
would mean between them flashed into her heart, awaken¬ 
ing the mother dormant within her. “Ah! But it’s going 
to be hard—hard—hard !” 

The cry burst, involuntarily, from her lips. All the 
love and longing which inspired it shone in the gaze 
which seemed to envelop him as a glowing fire. . . For 
a space he stood silent, lost with her in a world which 
neither had dreamed of before. Then he stepped for¬ 
ward with a muttered ejaculation, and they clung togeth¬ 
er as they had clung on their first night on the island: 
two derelict beings swept over the world’s edge. . . . 

“Go in,” he whispered tremulously, at last. “I can’t 
come to supper to-night. I must go away alone for a 
bit . . . and think. . . . You’ve opened a new world 
to me to-night.” 

He kissed her with lingering gentleness, and turned 
away toward the shore. 

Barbara walked slowly into the hut. But to her, also, 
food seemed impossible just then. That moment’s 
illumination had opened up a new world for her, too—a 
world which, it seemed, she was never to enter! . . . 
With a little sobbing breath, she went into the sleeping- 
hut, and threw herself face downward on her bed. . . . 

For a long time neither alluded to this conversation. 
A new chord had been struck between them, too deep for 
idle talk. A subtler difference, a shade more of serious¬ 
ness, came into their relations. The shadow cast by the 
mountain-peaks enveloped them. Try as they would, 
they could never quite free themselves from it. 

Distractions of any sort became urgent; but to find 
them, in this small island, was no easy matter. However, 
Alan, after mentally viewing the land, took what frail 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 189 

material there was and wove it into ropes of support. 
That the ropes might break, he could not foresee. 

He turned once more, in pathetic hope, to the natives. 

During the months since their first visit to the settle¬ 
ment, he had come to occupy the unique position of a 
semi-divine Overlord. His orders, issued at first in the 
spirit of bluff, were obeyed. This at first surprised, then 
amused, him. After a time, it afforded him intense inter¬ 
est. Twice since Christmas he and Barbara had walked 
across to the south, descending upon the tribe with god¬ 
like abruptness. Each time, Chimabahoi hastened to show 
him the results of the various celestial messages he had 
delivered. His orders regarding cleanliness were receiv¬ 
ing extraordinary consideration; irrigation work had 
been undertaken. Now, he plunged with new zest into 
this novel training of prehistoric minds. He ordered the 
cultivation of taro to be reinstituted; tapestry-weaving 
from reeds to be revived. All this, originating from fear, 
not inclination, slowly awakened the natives’ interest, 
which, increasing, caused much of their lethargy to vanish. 

Within a few weeks, the last signs of a threatening new 
epidemic of sickness vanished, and the settlement became 
more wholesome. This being attributed to the white 
man’s magic, their fear blended into a crude awesome 
affection, which struck Alan as pathetic. Gradually his 
visits became hailed even with delight. For, in matters 
of dispute, Chimabahoi appealed to him, relying more 
and more on his counsel. And, swayed by none of the 
opposing elements, he dealt with a severe justness, yet 
humaneness, which they found both novel and attrac¬ 
tive. Withal, he braced them, stimulating their latent 
powers, much in the same way in which he had stimu¬ 
lated Barbara, by the mere force of his own vitality. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


190 

Her own interest in these people grew apace. From 
Alan she learned some of the dialect, very soon being able 
to speak a little herself. Sometimes she brought the 
children odd bits of ribbon or lace, which produced an 
excited uproar. Weeks later, she used to see these 
scraps adorning some woman’s dark form, with ludicrous 
incongruity. 

But, among these “children of nature,” as among other 
children, not of nature but of civilized education, there 
existed under-currents of strife, ambition, ill-feeling. 
These were responsible for a division of which Croft 
soon became aware. The more savage factions waxed 
impatient for Babooma to be their chief. Only the super¬ 
stitious awe in which a chief is held saved Chimabahoi 
from being despatched unceremoniously to the spirits of 
his murdered sons. The result of that would have been 
civil war, and deadly peril for the two white people. For 
Babooma and his friends were not partial to these strange 
newcomers who forced them to work and frustrated their 
savage tendencies. Croft knew well the risky ground 
on which he trod. For reasons of strategy, therefore, 
he forbore, save for a drastic warning, to take any steps 
in retaliation for Christmas Day’s attempt upon his life. 
“Ball-devils” from the white woman, in swift retribution 
for what he had contemplated, had frightened Babooma 
enough for the present. His black face was seldom seen, 
nowadays, far from the settlement. 

Roowa and Meamaa, since their child’s recovery, had 
regarded the “white chief” with little less than worship. 
And this face gave Alan the idea wherewith to cause 
distraction in the increasing difficulty of the life he and 
Barbara now led. It was, both knew, but catching at 
straws; yet, eagerly, such frail aids were welcomed. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


191 

After a short consultation with Chimabahoi, Roowa 
was commanded to take up his residence in the north, 
to help the “white chief” in work upon the land, while 
Meamaa served his “wife.” 

The ruined huts were strictly tabu, haunted by the 
spirits of those slain there. Roowa, proudly radiant, 
began to build a new hut, to which Meamaa and his two 
children could be fetched. 

“Meamaa my only woman,” he told Croft one day. 
“But I am content. Good cook, and I like her.” 

“That is well,” Croft replied seriously, wondering if 
this native differed much from many of his own country¬ 
men in this respect. 

“But many men not content! Our women are few. 
Babooma’s woman killed by white men’s ball-devils. 
Babooma not content!” His eyes rolled deliberately in 
the direction of Barbara not far off, then back to Croft. 
The white man made no reply. But a new danger reared 
its menacing head. . . . 

Within a short time smoke arose from Meamaa’s 
cooking; and two small black figures danced, like imps, 
among the palms. 

II 

Thus a new phase opened, and, for some months, 
these frail aids showed a deceptive strength. 

Croft occupied almost feverishly every minute. With 
Roowa’s help and native implements, he managed to 
divert the course of a small stream from the river to the 
lagoon, past his hut; thus providing fresh water at their 
door, and an ornamental rivulet in their enclosure. He 
also started irrigation and cultivation on a small scale, 
clearing away much scrub behind the ruined huts, with 
the idea of planting taro. 


192 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Barbara, when she was not helping him, continued her 
experiments in gardening, gradually inducing a few ferns, 
pau-pau, and other plants to take root. Their palisade 
enclosed a small clump of palms, to which she slung the 
hammock. Alan roughly constructed a little canoe in 
which they could paddle about the lagoon; while Meamaa 
contributed an absorbing new edition of the book of hu¬ 
man nature. 

Truly, if “one touch of nature makes the whole world 
kin,” a thread of gossip binds it from pole to pole! The 
English girl discovered that a civilized country parish and 
a far-off native settlement are not, after all, so far apart. 
Their differences, like their color, are often but skin-deep. 
When once Meamaa became accustomed to this semi¬ 
human white woman, she regaled her with the history of 
every member of the tribe. This was dished up with a 
choice array of crude facts and cruder embellishments 
which, a year before, would have made her cheeks burn. 

“I wish,” she remarked to Alan one day, “we could 
teach them English.” 

He rolled his eyes up in imitation of Roowa. “She 
wants to start a Mission!” he exclaimed. 

“Not at all. I think I shall try. It would be inter¬ 
esting.” 

The result of this effort was far-reaching. The news 
of the gods’ own language being imparted spread like 
smoke to the south. One day Barbara found six awe¬ 
struck women and several children squatting beside Mea¬ 
maa to hear the celestial words. With some amusement 
she gave a lesson. That was but a prelude. Nearly every 
evening parties of men and women arrived at Roowa’s 
hut, sending him to implore the “white chief’s” wife to 
speak to them in the strange tongue. Alan frequently 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


193 


found himself alone and supperless. Therefore, man¬ 
like, he “put his foot down,” suggesting fixed days for 
this instruction. 

So it came to pass that, on certain evenings of the week, 
practically the entire tribe panted northward, squatting 
on the coral beach, listening spell-bound. Their keenness 
and quickness to learn were extraordinary. In an in¬ 
credibly short time some of them had acquired quite a 
smattering of English. 

Alan joined in the role of teacher in a somewhat novel 
fashion. With the British Royal Family, past and pres¬ 
ent, representing his gods, England their Olympus, he 
thrilled his hearers to the bone with long histories of his 
native land. Stories of its battles especially pleased 
them—the war against their own white enemies 
being a never-failing joy. Names of royalty, eminent 
soldiers or sailors, gradually became household words. 
But their sense of time remained vague. Kitchener and 
William the Conqueror presumably shook hands; while 
Nelson took part in the Battle of Jutland. To them it 
remained incredible that such gods could die and be super¬ 
seded. Neither could they realize that those “other 
worlds” were but strange lands in their own, not different 
planets in the blue skies above. For reasons of his own, 
Alan forbore to press any of these points. 

“I wonder,” suggested Barbara, when they strolled 
together one night, “if we ought to teach them Chris¬ 
tianity.” 

Alan looked down, smiling at these lingering instincts 
of the parson’s daughter; but shook his head. 

“If they learn gentleness, kindness and cleanliness, 
don’t you think they are acquiring the spirit of it?” he 
asked. “These will permeate, paving the way, if you 


194 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


think it necessary to teach them Christian creeds later. 
But don’t upset their old faiths yet—they are not ready. 
It’s always a dangerous thing. If it’s hurried, it is fatal.” 

She thrust her arm through his. “You’re awfully wise, 
Alan mine! You seem to know just how to manage the 
natives. Why is it, I wonder ?” 

“Because I care for them. You can usually understand 
those you love, if you try. See how well I manage you!” 

She pinched his hand. “You don’t. It’s just the re¬ 
verse ! You have become like a lamb since—Christmas.” 

“A wolf in lamb’s clothing, probably.” 

She laughed; then felt his arm. “D’you know, you’re 
getting thin, Alan.” 

“Hard work.” 

“I have noticed it in your face, too. You mustn’t 
work so incessantly—there’s no need.” 

“Isn’t there ? Ah, Barbara! I think there is.” 

She looked up quickly; but he had turned his face 
seaward; only the grim set of his mouth was visible. 
The woman in her thrilled to him, for she understood. 
Clasping his arm tightly, she laid her face against it. 

“Dear!” she murmured. 

“We have been here nearly a year,” was his only 
response. 

“I know.” 

They walked on in silence a while, passing near Roowa’s 
hut. Just outside the entrance the native and his wife 
sat close together, the youngest child asleep in the man’s 
arms, both too much absorbed in low-toned conversation 
to notice their approach. The natives’ love may be little 
above that of an animal for its mate; but it contents them. 

Barbara’s clasp tightened, as these two outcasts from 
all laws looked upon the group. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


195 


“They are very happy. Alan, I often watch thenl. ,, 

“So do I—my God!” 

She glanced up in surprise at the passionate tone in his 
voice. 

“I sometimes wish I had never brought them here,” 
he continued. She was silent a moment; then drew his 
hand swiftly up to her face. With her lips against it, 
she whispered, so low that he had to bend down to catch 
her words: 

“Do you ever look at—their little ones—and think— 
supposing—if—only-?” 

“Barbara! Ido.” 

He turned and drew her into his arms. “I have 
thought of it all —over and over again! I think of noth¬ 
ing else.” 

The relief of speaking, for once, about the theme which 
lay heavy upon their hearts caused discretion to be thrown 
to the winds. “It haunts me!” she cried passionately, 
clinging to him. “It haunts me day and night. I can’t 
bear to see them. I’ve tried-” 

“And I, by heaven!” 

Loosing her abruptly, he threw himself down upon the 
rock outside the hut and bowed his head in his hands. 
What was passing through his mind she could only sur¬ 
mise by the chaos of emotion which, now the barriers 
were down, surged through her own. All these weeks 
both had struggled to forget the problems menacing them. 
But the very straws at which they had caught proved to 
be, so to speak, serpents in disguise. For nature, crude 
and unattended, ruled this island. By her inexorable 
laws these primitive people were guided, unabashed, in 
all good faith. And among these subtle forces working 
around them, undermining the very ground beneath their 


196 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


feet, the two were flung together in a solitude, a famil¬ 
iarity, so maddening yet so entrancing, that their senses 
were inflamed at every turn. Escape was impossible. 
Wherever they moved they were confronted with their 
own rising passion. Regarded as man and wife, they 
shrank now from visiting the settlement together. 
Throughout the days each constantly surprised the other’s 
furtive, hungry, troubled regard. Conversation became 
often strained, demonstrativeness between them a danger. 
Throughout the night each lay listening to the other’s 
movements and breathing, through the frail bamboo par¬ 
tition. No longer could they shout careless badinage, 
hold midnight talks. . . . But, since the building of the 
palisade, neither had dared put into words the fear rising 
ever higher in their hearts. 

He uncovered his face at last, and looked up at her, a 
grim defiance in his eyes. 

“We can’t go on like this. It’s damnable! Barbara 
—come here.” 

Hesitating a little, not understanding the unusual 
expression of his face, she went toward the hand he held 
out. He caught her roughly by the arm, pulling her down 
to her knees at his side, gazing into her eyes for several 
seconds without speaking—searching, proving her in 
some inexplicable manner. 

“How much do you love me?” he demanded, at last. 

She looked startled at his peremptory tone. “Why do 
you ask such questions ?” But she collapsed against him. 
“With my very life,” she whispered passionately. “I 
should die if I lost you now.” 

He strained her close, pressing hot lips to hers. “How 
far would you go with me? How far?” he muttered 
eagerly. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


197 


“To eternity!” she murmured, half faint with the sud¬ 
den passion sweeping them both away. The arms holding 
her were trembling. 

“If we never get rescued? How far then? How far, 
Barbara ?” 

Only a little stifled gasp answered him. 

All the soft night odors of the forest were stealing 
down to the beach, blending with the pungent smell of 
hot earth, mingling with the languorous murmur of the 
tide. Close in his arms, a weak craving to surrender, to 
capitulate before the forces arrayed against them both, 
swept over her. It was so easy to let all else go. . . . She 
turned, laying her head back a little, thrilling to the touch 
of his lips upon her throat. . . . Twice she opened her 
own lips, but no words would come; only her eyes told 
him that which caused his senses to reel. His grip tight¬ 
ened, so that he hurt her; but the pain was an exquisite 
joy. 

The animal in man, longing fiercely for its mate, had 
been let loose in Alan, stronger for all these months of 
temptation and repression. The future at this moment 
lay in his hands;—and he knew it, exulted in the knowl¬ 
edge. . . . 

Half unconsciously he rose to his feet, lifting her, 
unresisting, with him. Her warm young body lay ac¬ 
quiescent, at his mercy. He took a step toward the hut; 
cast one dazed look round the darkening beach- 

From Roowa’s dwelling the faint cry of a child came 
to them, wafted upon the soft night breeze down the 
bay. . . . 

The girl heard it, and raised her head. The man heard 
it, and caught his breath. Their eyes met. 

She slipped from his arms with a long quivering sigh. 



198 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


They stood facing each other, struggling with the turbu¬ 
lence of their emotion. 

“‘Reverberations’! Do you—remember?” she whis¬ 
pered, at last. 

He made no reply, continuing to gaze upon her face, 
and she went on speaking, almost to herself, standing 
before him with the darkness closing around her. 

“ ‘The vast harmony in which each note has unlimited 
effect upon every other note.’ You taught me that. Do 
you remember? Life’s a harmony, you said. We—we 
are forgetting.” 

He turned away and walked to the lagoon, standing 
there for several minutes, his back toward her, his hands 
covering his face. When he returned, he had, she could 
see, regained his self-control. Coming close, he laid his 
hands upon her shoulders. 

“Are we perhaps troubling over what may never 
happen? Barbara—there might be no—no ‘reverbera¬ 
tions.’ There are not, always.” 

She smiled at him, a smile that was almost maternal. 

“That’s true. But-” She broke off, a little catch in 

her breath, her eyes dwelling dreamily upon the face 
above her own, as if picturing something far off and 
passing beautiful. . . . “But it wouldn’t be fair,” she 
muttered to herself. 

A flush mounted to his cheek in meeting and interpret¬ 
ing the look which, momentarily, his own eyes reflected. 

“The thought of you troubles me most,” he owned. 
“The question of ‘fairness’ is an open one. This is a 
grand free life for anybody who—knows no other. The 
world might think it unfair. But the world doesn’t 
count with us. We are savages now. But you—you! 
Oh, my darling! . . . Nature is so hard on women.” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


199 


Her face was hidden on his breast. He went on diffi¬ 
dently, whispering into the dark hair. 

“The question of 'reverberations’ shall be yours en¬ 
tirely. Do you understand? If you decide not to face 
it all-” 

“Ah! no, no, no!” She raised her head quickly. 
“Alan, I love you for that. But I won’t shirk! Don’t 
ever think I mean that” She turned her luminous eyes 
seaward. “Imagine a little home with just you and 
me and—a dear little nest all our own. . . . Oh! it’s 
cruel, cruel!” Passionately she gripped his shoulders. 
“I long for it all—I ache inside. Sometimes I dream we 
have it together; and then—then I wake up-” 

“But we can have it, here, now,” he interrupted eagerly. 
“Only the forms would be absent; the spirit would be 
there. Surely, in these circumstances, we can make our 
own laws?” He took her clinging hands in his. “Bar¬ 
bara, have you thought over the matter? Faced it 
squarely? Or are you viewing it from the—the Darbury 
standpoint ?” 

“My brain has gone round and round like a whirlpool 
for months! I don’t know what I think.” 

“Well, think this,” he said gently: “Marriage laws and 
forms vary with every creed, and in every country, to suit 
temperament or—environment. And, everywhere, certain 
conventions are necessary. For God’s sake, don’t imagine 
I’m an advocate of loose morality! But you and I are 
cast off from all rules save those of our own making. 
Have you considered that? These natives—or Indians, 
Turks, Christians—all have some ideal which they em¬ 
body in certain marriage rites and laws.” 

She hung upon his words, clasping tightly the hands 
holding her own. “Yes ?” she breathed, when he paused. 



200 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Well—we are adrift from every one which applies to 
us. We can’t obey them in the letter. We only have 
them in our hearts.” 

“You mean,” she whispered, “you think it would be 
right to form our own—marriage rites?” 

“I do. Before God, Barbara, I do. To me, our wed¬ 
ding would be as sacred and lawful here, with the sea for 
music, the birds for witness, as in a crowded church. 
I want you always to remember that.” 

The waves echoed faintly upon the shore; the wind 
stirred the palm-leaves in their enclosure; otherwise the 
whole world seemed waiting, in a stillness like death, for 
her reply. 

“I believe you, Alan,” she murmured at last. “I had 
not thought of it at all in this light. It would be the 
same to me, in my heart. But—should we be right? 
Suppose—afterward—we were rescued ?” 

“Well? Then we should at once obey the letter. Here 
we can obey the spirit. But isn’t that the greater? In 
the world it is the reverse, often. The spirit is violated.” 

“Suppose,” she began again, with a shudder, “only one 
of us were rescued ?” 

“Don’t conjure up imaginary horrors.” 

She drew away, looking around the bay with the same 
pathetic helplessness that had struck him so poignantly 
on Christmas Eve. 

“Oh!” she muttered, “it is a terrible problem! If 
only there were somebody outside it all, to help ! I am so 
afraid our very love may guide us—wrongly.” 

“No,” he said quickly. “It won’t, because it is love 
—not that other word beginning with the same letter. 
Besides, it is the motive of the heart which counts, in all 
problems.” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


201 


She glanced up. The words brought a swrft memory 
across her mind of the last tennis party in her old life; 
of Mrs. Field, who never lightly condemned. 

“If I had a terrible problem to decide I should come to 
you/’ she had said. But not even Mrs. Field could decide 
in this matter, were she here. 

A great loneliness, in the midst of all her love, descend¬ 
ed on the girl. For the first time she fully realized the 
terrible isolation of each soul when confronted with huge 
issues. She turned away, covering her face with her 
hands. 

“What can we do? What can we do?” The words 
came brokenly, pathetically, to the other outcast from all 
laws. He was conscious to-night, more than ever before, 
of their growing, dominant need of each other. Had he 
striven in his old arrogance she would not, he knew, have 
resisted his appeal. But the great keynote was tuning 
his nature as well as hers. All the chivalry latent in his 
being rose to his heart, casting out passion. With infinite 
delicacy he went to her and put his arms about her. 

“We are down among the deep chords together, now,” 
he whispered. “But together—always together.” 

With a choking cry she turned and flung herself upon 
his breast, clinging to him, the only human bulwark of 
her life. 

“I can’t decide yet. Oh! I can’t—decide; I can’t 
decide-” And she burst into a passion of tears. 

Ill 

No shadowy mountain-peaks, but hard bare facts now 
stared them in the face. Down at the bedrock of 
nature, among elementals, shorn of both the encrusting 
fetters and the transfiguring embellishments of civiliza- 



202 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


tion, love had seized them in a grip that was violent, re¬ 
lentless. 

They had caught at straws, and the straws had broken; 
allowed the orchestra rising all around to draw their 
hearts to its only keynote; and now the deep chords were 
vibrating—dominant, insistent. . . . 

The man, with the divine instinct of understanding now 
awakened, realized acutely all that the girl was suffering. 
He held her quivering form close, saying nothing. There 
was nothing he could say. Her own soul must now fight 
out this battle between the old instincts of a lifetime and 
those of a world beyond the reach of civilized rule. 

Presently, when she grew calmer, he lifted her bodily 
and carried her into the hut. He placed her upon her 
bed; then knelt for a moment, and laid his cheek to hers. 

“The decision lies in your hands,” he whispered. 
“Come and tell me when you know.” 

Then he rose to his feet, lingering beside her for a time, 
a world of almost maternal tenderness in his steady re¬ 
gard. But she made no reply. With a little gesture of 
helplessness, he turned, and walked back to the lagoon. 

Here, often now, he spent half the night, alone with 
the torments of his body and mind. Here, with clenched 
hands, beads of perspiration on his face, he wrestled with 
the powers arrayed against him. Here, to the music of 
the distant surf, the brute and the divine—so subtly 
mingled in man—waged their eternal war. Sometimes 
one triumphed; sometimes the other. If a dozen times 
he halted in his restless pacing, to turn to the dark little 
hut so damnably near, so utterly at his mercy ... so 
pathetically alone—a dozen times he threw himself down 
upon the sand, and gripped his head with shaking fingers, 
shutting out the sight of hut, and sea, and sky. . . . 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


203 


Croft, in old days, could not have been called a strongly- 
sexed man. All the vitality of his nature went into other 
channels. Now, when, for the first time, passion had 
come to him, it found him bereft of all those other outlets 
to his abundant energy. It shook him with fierce inten¬ 
sity. In the past, his whole concentration, every ounce 
of brain and strength, had been given to his work and 
inventions. Now the same splendid force, welling up 
and overflowing, was concentrated upon woman—a chan¬ 
nel half-closed against him. Being half-closed caused 
more torture than if it had been entirely shut and barred. 

Fate—God—whatever the Unseen Power was called— 
had hurled them, man and woman, together in this isola¬ 
tion. Why, by all that was sacred, should they resist the 
law underlying His creation ? Must His primal laws be 
set aside because those made by man, now mere chim¬ 
eras, were absent ? It was absurd, quixotic, unnecessary. 

But beneath the velvet glove of nature lies the iron 
hand; behind her smiling face sits grim severity. These, 
more than any scruples, caused him to pause. He who 
had ever scorned obstacles, now faced them appalled. 
He who had never known fear, was now afraid. . . . 

These stupendous issues affected the woman he loved 
far more than they could ever affect man. Alan, who 
used to carve out his own career regardless of woman, 
now began, figuratively, to abase himself before her. He 
had fully intended, upon finding the sanctuary of Bar¬ 
bara’s heart free, to win his way there. He set himself 
to the task in his own manner, and he succeeded. But, 
with the success, came the realization of the flavor of 
dead ashes, should his victory be violated. Following 
that, came the great discovery that true love lies in giving, 
not in taking—that this was fact, not platitude. . . . 


204 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


He who had ever seized what he desired, now stood 
aside and waited. 

Barbara must decide. To that, amid the turmoil of 
his spirit, he clung. There must never be coercion; she 
was no weakling. Not until she saw the path clear before 
her would she move an inch: that he knew well. 

But she would never shirk. Sitting alone in the dark¬ 
ness after leaving her, he clasped his arms round his 
knees and buried his face upon them, the blood tingling 
in his veins at the vision of the woman’s heights to which 
she might climb. There would be no drawing back, no 
compromise. Her surrender would be complete. But it 
would never be a surrender from weakness. It would be 
a glorious conquest—a conquest over all that was base 
and unworthy, all that was surface and mere symbol. 
Whichever way lay the decision, it would mean the 
triumph of her truest self. . . . 

No sign came from the hut. Within its darkness, inert, 
head buried in her outstretched arms, lay the arbiter of 
his fate and her own. In a great and awful loneliness of 
soul, such as she had never imagined possible, she faced 
the greatest question woman can be called upon to 
answer. The mountains were quite close now; "but she 
approached them without shrinking, only desirous of 
finding the right path across to her Beloved. She did not 
blind herself. She had contemplated marriage before, 
aware of all it meant to a woman in civilization. Now 
she contemplated it shorn of all but nature’s own sub¬ 
limely terrible forces; contemplated the years ahead, with 
the possibility of other lives besides their own. . . . 
Reverberations! Truly, when one irrevocable chord is 
struck, the reverberations roll on and on, echoing all 
around, so that God’s whole Harmony may be marred 
or perfected. Can one always tell which it will be? 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


205 


One short year, though it may develop a nature beyond 
recognition, does not wipe out the very foundations upon 
which a human being has been reared. Love and passion 
for her man, the aching desire to become his wife—as 
she would now have become in ordinary circumstances— 
might have triumphed over all fear and doubt, had they 
not clashed with that inborn moral sense—far removed 
from prudery—which is one of the keenest instincts in 
true womanhood. Just because she desired so much to 
surrender, she hesitated. Not for the world, as he had 
said, would she have stained the beauty of their love, by 
giving way, until she had become convinced herself. She 
believed in the genuineness of his convictions, but they 
must become her own, too. . . . 

Both met next day, heavy-eyed from a sleepless night ? 
but each tacitly forbore to allude to the fact. They spoke 
little, making but a pretense at breakfast. Afterward, 
Alan fetched his native bow and arrows. 

“I may not be back until evening,” he said. “You 
will be all right?” 

/Quite.” 

There was a relief in her tone which he noticed and 
understood. He hesitated; but she did not look up. For 
the first time since Christmas they had omitted their 
morning kiss. And now something restrained him from 
taking the wistful little face in his hands, much as he 
longed to do so. He turned and strode off up the bay. 

The omission was significant. They had struck a chord 
too deep ever to return to the delightful camaraderie of 
the past. Demonstrativeness held a hidden menace 
behind all its charm. A new wall, vastly different from 
the old one, yet no less baffling, formed again between 
them. Once more, each intuitively hid behind reserve, 


206 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


yet hung upon the other’s slightest action. Once more, 
only surface topics were allowed admittance. Once more, 
Alan spent long hours away. . . . 

Love and youth! Warm, tender womanhood; man¬ 
hood in its prime! The very air with its languorous 
softness, the radiant beauty all around, every familiarity 
of their life together, conspired to fan their senses to 
white heat. With the passing of the weeks, the spell 
worked more subtly, more surely, through their entire 
being. ... 

One day, before their second Christmas, Meamaa fell 
sick. Barbara, who of late had shunned too much con¬ 
tact with that happy family, fetched Laalo and his sister 
to play in the enclosure. Children’s merry laughter 
echoed around their home ; and Alan, instead of going off 
as usual, stayed to play with them. 

Barbara watched him, all her heart shining in her eyes. 
There was nobody to put the fear of tabu into Laalo’s 
frizzy head. The “great white chief” told him marvel¬ 
ous stories of animals never seen upon their island. He 
became a wonderful horse galloping round the hut, with 
Laalo upon his back; then a roaring lion, that roared 
most terribly. There were swings in the hammock, and 
games of which the little natives had never heard. 

And all the time, while joining in their play, Barbara 
watched her man. Often, too, she found him watching 
her. . . . How happy these little ones were in their life 
of freedom, knowing no other. . . . The conventions of 
previous years seemed very remote now, very unreal. . . . 
His point of view was, surely, mere common sense? . . . 
As the day wore on, she fell more and more silent, a 
terrible aching hunger in her heart. . . . Must their two 
natures age here in barren purposelessness? Never be 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


207 


fulfilled? Why? Because far-off rules of society, which 
could not reach them, would be broken? How trivial 
such things seemed here, where the world was still in 
its beginning. . . . 

In the evening, the tiny girl, tired after the excitement 
of the day, grew sleepy and fretful. Alan stopped an 
uproarious game, sat down upon a rock, and lifted her in 
his arms. She lay there contentedly, her little black head 
nestled in his shoulder. 

A pain that, in its poignancy, was almost physical, 
gripped Barbara’s heart. Great tears welled up suddenly 
and ran down her cheeks. Moved by an irresistible im¬ 
pulse, she darted forward and snatched the child from 
him. “No, no, no! I can’t bear—that! Let them go 
home. ... It is time they went home. . . .” 

For a moment he gazed at her, bereft of speech. Then 
he rose, and called Laalo. 

“I will take them home,” he said quietly. 

When he returned, she had sunk upon the rock he had 
vacated. With eyes tragic in their intentness, she watched 
him approach. He came close to her. With one of his 
old swift movements he raised her chin with his hand, so 
that she met the penetration of his gaze. 

“Barbara!” he muttered, “this will drive us mad. We 
are human, not gods.” 

She drew away, hiding her face in her hands. The very 
touch of his fingers sent an electric current racing 
through her veins. They seemed, nowadays, to live in 
some magnetic field, where the slightest, most unexpected 
movement set all the electricity in motion. To continue 
like this was becoming daily more impossible. 

Presently she rose, not daring to speak, and turned 
from him into the hut. 


208 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Together, always together,” Alan had said. But 
therein lay the bitterness: it could not be borne together. 
There are some natures which rejoice in talk, talk, cease¬ 
less talk. That brings, in a way, its own relief. But 
with these two, in their inherent reserve, such relief was 
impossible. Each had to struggle alone. Every moment 
of contact became a danger. 

A new fear assailed Barbara. If she could not decide 
as he wished, what might be the result? Would the 
situation become so intolerable that their love would 
suffer? Could love be turned into that other word, or 
even to hatred, if unnaturally thwarted? Even as it 
would if violated? 

Blindly, bewildered, she groped her way, step by step, 
through this maze of uncertainty. The day with the 
native children had been a revelation. Never before had 
she realized the passion of longing which possessed her. 
. . . And by her own self-revelation she judged the suf¬ 
fering of the man waiting for her decision. The claims 
of another’s need grew insistent, dominating. . . . More 
and more did the life of previous years seem pale and 
unreal. . . . The fears for the future, the burden of its 
responsibilities, grew fainter, assumed new aspects. . . . 

There came a night when Alan, after being away all 
day, returned moody, irritable, impatient of all the trivial 
subjects with which she endeavored to make conversa¬ 
tion. 

“Have you been working in the plantation ?” she 
asked, after several unsuccessful attempts during supper. 

“No.” 

He ate a banana, and threw away the skin. “What’s 
the good of it all?” he asked impatiently. “It will lead 
nowhere.” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


209 


"It’s occupation/’ she faltered. 

“Occupation? Yes. Occupation for the sake of occu¬ 
pation! Is that all life is to be worth? My God! 
What an outlook!” 

Pushing away the shell which served him for plate, he 
clasped his arms round his knees, gazing gloomily over 
the lagoon. 

This was another of Barbara’s fears. How long would 
the limited interests of the island, shorn of a deeper outlet, 
suffice for a man of his temperament? 

“You are doing a lot of good among the natives,” she 
suggested, feeble though she knew the remark to be. 

“Good ?” He gave an impatient laugh. “Lord! Don’t 
credit me with the instincts of a missionary! That’s only 
'occupation/ One hour, if we left this place, and they 
would forget it all.” 

He got up, thrusting his hands into his breeches pock¬ 
ets, then drawing them quickly out again. “Not even a 
smoke!” With sudden violence he kicked a half-empty 
cocoanut out of his way. “Drink—dope—anything for— 
'occupation’!” 

This bitterness, this dreary desolation of voice and 
mien, so unlike the old Alan of indomitable resource and 
optimism, cut Barbara to the heart. For she understood. 

“Alan! Alan!” she cried, stretching out a hand. 

But he shook his head. “No. I can’t—I—daren’t. 
I’m only fit for the devil to-night.” 

She rose, her lips trembling, and went toward him. 

“Don’t! Alan, don’t shut me out! I—understand—” 

“Understand? You can’t, or-” Suddenly he 

seized her, almost viciously, dragging her up against him. 
With shaking hands he pressed back her head, and laid 
his hot lips upon her neck. 



210 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I—I’ll—force you to give in—one day-” he mut¬ 

tered thickly. 

She did not struggle; but she trembled violently in his 
grasp. For a long moment his eyes burned into hers. 
But, among the answering passion they saw there, lay the 
purity which was the very essence of her being. . . . 

As abruptly as he had seized her, he let her go again. 

“I —I told you I was only fit for the devil to-night,” he 
said huskily. “Let me be . . . for God’s sake, let me 
be. ...” 

She turned, quivering in every limb, and ran into the 
hut. 

Brought up in an atmosphere of orthodox forms of 
prayer, Barbara in the old life had never felt the reality 
or the need of it. But to-night, tossing to and fro upon 
her bed, the sudden awful craving of a helpless being for 
some Guiding Hand came upon her with the decision, 
slowly but surely, forming in her heart—the desperate 
desire, as it were, for sanction, understanding. 

Sitting up, she gazed out through the aperture over the 
moonlit water and reef, in a very agony of mute supplica¬ 
tion, her hands clasped upon her breast. Must her soul 
go through to the very end, unaided? Was there nobody 
to see, to know, to help? . . . Throwing herself on her 
knees beside the bed, she fell forward on her outstretched 
arms, in a paroxysm of uncontrolled weeping. Uncon¬ 
scious of any coherent petitions, her overcharged heart 
emptied itself of all its doubts and fears and resolves. 

For hours she lay there, deaf and blind to all around, 
alone with her God. . . . 

And gradually a great peace stole over her spirit. 
Imperceptibly, the last mountain rolled slowly away. As 
one tired out after long, victorious warfare, she lay. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


2II 


motionless, the moonlight falling through the little win¬ 
dow upon her white-robed figure. . . . 

After a time she rose and looked once more upon the 
waves she loved so well, a wondrous shining in her eyes. 
And all the perfumed beauty of the night blended in the 
tender, passionate craving to be with him who, also, had 
striven, and suffered, and conquered. 

Slipping on her old Japanese wrapper, she passed noise¬ 
lessly out of her room. He had, she knew, not gone 
in to bed. 

Opening the door of the hut, she stepped into the little 
garden, the wind lightly fluttering her wide sleeves, and 
hurried down to the shore. She scanned the moonlit 
scene eagerly; but there was no sign of the figure she 
sought. 

Moved by some instinct, she turned, stumbling over the 
rough ground, and ascended the eastern slopes, where 
they had watched the dawn on that Christmas Day nearly; 
a year ago. 

IV 

The waning moon showed dawn to be not far off. 
The frayed ends of Barbara’s blue wrapper flapped 
wildly about her form, as she hurried up the rising 
ground. She raised her face to meet the wind, feeling 
a sensuous delight in its cool fresh touch upon her skin, 
its wanton games among her short hair. It seemed to 
stir some inner reciprocal chord of her nature, causing 
her to feel, after these months of struggle, a sense of 
exhilaration, a unity with the winds and waves and all 
the great free elements of life. 

At the summit a group of rough boulders, moss-cov¬ 
ered, commanded a long view over the eastern shore of 
the island, while forming a shelter from the wind. The 


212 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


girl approached them; then, at a sudden soft sound, stood 
still, her heart beating rapidly. Noiselessly rounding 
them, she discovered the man she sought stretched upon 
the ground, his head thrown back upon clasped arms, 
his eyes dreaming far away over the softly outlined scene 
below. 

For a moment she fingered the folds of her thin gar¬ 
ment, watching him. Then the wind fluttered one of her 
loose sleeves; and his gaze flashed back from far dis¬ 
tances. Turning his head, he saw the figure standing, 
motionless, by his side. 

“Barbara!” he cried, springing to his feet. He 
gripped the nearest boulder. “What is the matter? What 
are you doing here?” 

But all words of explanation vanished from her mind. 
She stood perfectly still, her hands pressed upon the 
garment at her breast, the wind waving her cloudy hair, 
her lips a little parted, her blue eyes darkly shining in the 
faint light. During that moment she gave the man the 
fleeting impression, in her misty blue draperies, of the 
spirit of the moonlit scene—a moonbeam which flitted 
across one’s heart, but, at a touch from rough hands, 
would vanish again. 

Once—twice—she tried to speak, but the words would 
not come: she could only envelop him, as it were, in the 
radiant glory of her face. . . . 

Suddenly a great wave of understanding broke over 
him, rendering him for a moment breathless, blinded, be¬ 
wildered. . . . Then, instinctively, he raised his arms. 
With a little inarticulate cry the girl allowed him to take 
her, trembling in her capitulation, clinging to him, sub¬ 
mitting, without resistance, to the storm of passion at 
last set free. His kisses burned into her soft flesh, his 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


213 


arms crushed her well-nigh breathless; she was carried 
away by the tide of his ardor, responsive, glorying. . . . 

Barbara had crossed her Rubicon for all time. 

Presently he sat down upon the rocks, still holding her 
to him. 

“You—came to tell me?” he whispered, his face close 
to hers, his eyes piercing to her very soul. 

“Yes/’ she whispered back. . . . 

After a time she raised herself, still in his arms. 

“Alan, I—couldn’t tell you before; until I felt con¬ 
vinced that all—was right. You understand ; don’t you ? 
It was because I loved you so, dear heart, not—fear, or 
coldness-” 

“I understand,” he murmured, laying his cheek against 
hers. “I always understood. It was the beastly brute 
in me that sometimes seemed not to. . . . When, Bar¬ 
bara ?” 

Her head fell back upon his breast; with a little throb¬ 
bing sigh, she renounced her will to his. 

“Whenever—you like, Alan.” 

“At dawn?” he whispered. “It will soon be here. 
When the sun rises over the water it shall witness our— 
marriage rites?” 

The passion had died out of his voice, and a note almost 
of awe had crept in. 

Her eyes answered him. Then she turned them away 
over the stretch of silvery sand and coral beach, over the 
little groves of swaying palms, to the darkness of the 
wood beyond; thence to the dim purple horizon, along a 
pathway strewn with gleaming jewels where the moon- 
kissed waves shimmered as they rose and fell. 

“We couldn’t have a more beautiful temple,” she mur¬ 
mured, half to herself. 



214 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


They remained, sometimes silent, sometimes discussing, 
in low tones, their forthcoming bridal, while the moon¬ 
light waned, and the wonderful blue-black of the south¬ 
ern night softened and paled. 

Presently Alan lowered the hand he held near his 
cheek and opened the fingers. 

“What can we do about a wedding-ring ?” he asked. 

“Oh! Does that matter?” 

“I should like to see you wearing one—of mine. Un¬ 
fortunately I have neither a signet-ring nor a priceless 
heirloom taken from the finger of a dead great grand¬ 
mother !” 

The memory of Hugh’s ring in the hut flashed across 
the girl’s mind; but it brought now no poignant regrets. 

“Wait, though!” he continued, searching in the pock¬ 
ets of his frayed breeches. He displayed a collection of 
keys, a pocket-knife, and a pencil, suspended upon a 
small tin key-ring. 

“Will this fit? It’s better than nothing.” Detaching 
the articles, he took her left hand again; but she hastily 
withdrew it. 

“It is unlucky to try on a wedding-ring!” 

He laughed incredulously. “Surely you’re not super¬ 
stitious ? You—native!” 

“I’m so anxious not to risk anything—here. It looks 
about the right size, and will do beautifully. Oh, Alan! 
how I shall love it!” 

He smiled, a world of tenderness in his eyes. “Look,” 
he said. “Dawn is breaking.” And he drew her back 
into his arms. . . . 

Early birds began to chirp and whistle, away in the 
forest; the dancing waves turned a steely gray. The 
wind had dropped, leaving a great silence. It seemed as 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


215 


if nature were holding her breath, waiting for the dawn 
not far off. ... As the light increased, each tree and 
rock stood out dark and distinct; the distant birds left the 
shelter of their trees, flitting toward the lagoon, then 
wheeling back again. A flight of pigeons floated softly 
by in the- still air, toward the belt of woodland in the east. 
As they disappeared, the line of leaden eastern sky became 
faintly suffused with softest opal. . . . When at last the 
sun’s first long shaft of gold quivered across the water, 
the man rose and set the girl gently upon her feet. The 
hand in his trembled a little; but she met his eyes bravely, 
smilingly. ... 

With only the birds for witness, the sound of the surf 
for choir, the radiance of the eastern sky for altar, simply 
and from their hearts’ depths these two plighted their 
troth. The few chief sentences from the marriage service 
were chosen by Barbara for their only rites. 

There would be many, away in the world, to scoff, 
many to condemn. But no outward consecration of 
ground, no army of ordained priests, could have rendered 
more sacred that moment when the hush was broken by 
their low-voiced avowals. Perchance the “Destiny that 
shapes our ends,” seeing all things, reading all hearts, 
Who had flung these two together upon this far garden 
of His own creation, and given them there the one su¬ 
preme gift which is part of Himself, would understand 
and accept their vows: 

“ ‘To love and to cherish till death us do part . . . And 
thereto I plight thee my troth. . . . ’” 

Their voices did not falter. The small tin ring encircled 
the girl’s finger: they stood silent a while, with locked 
hands. Then he drew her toward him, and very gently 
their lips met. 


2l6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“My Wife!” he breathed. 

Smoke was rising from near Roowa’s hut, where Mea- 
maa cooked the early breakfast. Standing near the en¬ 
trance, Laalo practised his combined new arts of counting 
and English with the white flowers he held. 

“U-N . . . T-O-O . . . T-RE-E . . . A-aa!” 
Ending abruptly in a squeal of delight, he took to his 
heels. 

Meamaa looked up. “A-aa!” she murmured to herself. 
“The white chiefs come down from the heights! Truly 
they have held speech with the gods, while we slept. 
Their faces are as the face of the dawn itself.” Kneeling 
back from the fire, she gazed toward them, awe in her 
eyes. 

Laalo ran nimbly across the rough ground. His fear 
of the white chief was great, but outweighed by his 
adoration of both; when opportunity permitted, he 
followed Barbara about like a black puppy. 

“Ay-ey! Ay-ey!” he cried, his nearest approach to 
“Lady.” Breathless, he thrust his crumpled blossoms to¬ 
ward her. 

She took them with a laugh. “My wedding bouquet, 
Alan! Laalo, you ducky boy.” 

Alan was determined to have a honeymoon. 

“Chimabahowmuch may arrive with some grievance 
if we stay at home,” he said. “I don’t want to speak to 
anybody but you, to-day. I’ll give Roowa some orders; 
and we will go off in the boat together for the whole 
day.” 

He strode away to the native’s hut, with Laalo, not 
comprehending the dangers of tabu, clinging shyly to his 
hand. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


217 


Barbara bathed, dressed, and got breakfast, with no 
thought of fatigue after a sleepless night. Her heart 
seemed almost unbearably full. Every now and again she 
glanced at the little ring upon her marriage finger, press¬ 
ing it to her lips. As she watched the smoke curl up 
from her own fire, and that rising from Meamaa’s hut, 
she resembled the primitive woman glorying in this life 
shorn of all false trappings. Was not Meamaa likewise 
cooking food for her man? In the south, too, the native 
women were so employed. Man and his mate—in palace 
or hovel, in mansion or hut! All the artificiality hiding 
the big realities faded away with the worlds beyond the 
blue horizon. 

It was the same with Alan. Like some fine, strong, 
wild thing, he dived, swam and splashed in the river; 
then returned for breakfast, ravenously hungry, singing 
as he swung down the bay. 

“I have a great surprise!” Barbara announced. “Here 
is a tin of 'bully beef.’ I saved it for any emergency. 
Shall we have it for our wedding-feast, as a special treat ?” 

He shouted with laughter. “Lord! To think of 
‘bully’ becoming a special treat for a wedding-feast! 
Bring it along, O wise and thrifty woman.” 

That was a wonderful day. They simply followed the 
inclination of each moment, now drifting idly upon the 
sun-kissed waves, now paddling with sudden whim to the 
reef or shore and landing to explore some fresh beauty. 
Nothing came to disturb their happiness; no jarring 
sights or sounds marred the glories around. 

They ate their “wedding-feast” in a mossy shady dell; 
and even the memory of Aunt Dolly, who unconsciously 
had provided it, failed to cast more than a momentary 
shadow across their joy. 


218 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Alan lay along the bottom of the boat, his head pil¬ 
lowed in Barbara’s lap, as the sun began to sink. 

“Well?” he asked. “Have you found a desert island 
honeymoon very irksome? What about the big cities 
where you expected to ‘feel life’? What about your 
heart’s desire?” 

She laughed low, passing caressing fingers through his 
hair. “I have no other heart’s desire. You are life itself 
to me now, Alan. That’s why-” 

“You came to me last night?” he suggested softly, as 
she stopped. 

She nodded. The boat drifted idly, caressed by the 
soft breeze, rocking gently with the tide. 

“Thank God you did,” he murmured, after a pause. 
“Everything was becoming—unbearable.” 

She trailed her fingers in the water, lost in thought. 

“It was strange,” she observed presently, “that the 
day on which I first began to feel—what you had be¬ 
come to me—should have been my wedding-day!” 

“Those first months here nearly drove me mad—until 
1 was sure the field was clear,” he replied. “Then I 
meant to win!” He turned his head, smiling up at her. 
“When you appeared in boy’s attire, I knew I had won. 
It only needed a little more time and patience before you 
would—understand, too.” 

“I was blind—blind,” she murmured. “And in Eng¬ 
land I was blind, too. Alan, isn’t it awful to think of 
the tragic mistakes made through blindness?” 

“It is. But it seems to me that often it is only ‘blind 
man’s buff.’ If we tried we could pull off the bandage 
and see.” 

“What do you call the ‘bandage’?” 

He thought in silence for a moment. “Self, I suppose,” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


219 


he said slowly at last. “That begets envy, lack of con¬ 
sideration—everything the jolly old parsons preach 
about.’' 

Barbara pondered over this. 

“After all,” she mused, “if we all considered each other 
too much the world would come to a standstill! Like two 
over-polite people passing and repassing the butter-dish 
and neither getting any butter. Most things are founded 
on self, aren’t they? Personal or national ambitions 
cause competition; and that makes things move when 
otherwise they might never get started.” 

“Your wisdom doesn’t reflect too creditably on hu¬ 
manity,” he laughed. “But it’s true. And our old key¬ 
note gets lost—buried in materialism. Yet the poor old 
world is realizing—as you did at Darbury—that some¬ 
thing is missing which it can’t find. All the time, if it 
just paused and looked—'Lord! one does see things dif¬ 
ferently here— now” 

“Instead of crowning the harmony, we all spoil it,” she 
said, intent on her beloved theme which he had first 
awakened. “All down the ages it has been the same. 
All sorts of laws or schemes for improvements; yet 
everybody causing each other such personal misery! 
Isn’t it putting the cart before the horse? Mrs. Field 
sees that, I think. She has a very true grip of things.” 

“Yes,” he agreed warmly. “Her work is always warm 
and human, like herself. You never find it ruined by 
materialism, or the damned commercial spirit which spoils 
every enterprise nowadays. Ideals? They’re scorned! 
But she keeps hers.” 

“I suppose—once—she found the real keynote—as we 
have?” the girl murmured, with her newly-awakened 
knowledge. 


220 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Ah, yes! And she never lost it; she passed it on to 
others.” 

“Oh, Alan!” With sudden passion she drew his head 
back against her breast. “If I lost you—my husband— 
I couldn’t rise to her heights. I should die.” 

He turned in her arms, and pressed his lips to her soft 
neck. 

“Barbara! It means—all that—to you, at last?” 

They stayed in the boat until darkness had fallen. 
Then Alan took the oars he had fashioned, and paddled 
back to land. 

Silence fell upon them as they neared the shore. It 
was the hour when exterior things diminished to noth¬ 
ingness, and the Big Things were too vast for conversa¬ 
tion. He beached the boat, then slipped his arm around 
the girl and drew her toward the hut. 

“Our wedding-night, Barbara,” he whispered. 

Her feet lingered a little, and she paused now and then 
to admire beauties of scent or sound; the rising moon 
showed her face tremulous. Outside the dark hut, she 
drew herself free, turning toward the sea as though loath 
to leave it. It seemed as though she were silently bidding 
farewell to some part of her life; and the man behind her 
stood motionless, his eyes on her averted head, silently 
waiting, making no attempt to touch her. . . . 

At last, slowly, she turned and held out her hands. He 
took them close in his. 

“Come, my dearest,” he said. 

V 

Six months, when you live in an earthly paradise, 
are but a flash of vivid light in a sky which is always 
blue. These two had crossed their looming mountains 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


221 


and arrived at the valley upon the other side; and they 
found it fair and shining, full of the songs of birds. 

The days sped by, each seeming to exceed in beauty its 
predecessor. There was no need now to fill each mo¬ 
ment with arduous, thankless toil. All walls and divisions 
were down. When Alan, with a few slashing cuts, 
severed the bamboo partition in their sleeping-hut, it had 
been symbolic. 

“There!” he exclaimed, his foot upon the canes strew¬ 
ing the floor. “No more twos. Everything’s one” 

“One!” she breathed, renouncing, with the outward 
surrender of her only privacy, all the private strongholds 
of her nature. But the look she gave him was no longer 
elusive. It was steadfast, shining, exultant. . . . 

There were the most wonderful walks. Every corner 
of the island had to be revisited under these new and 
perfect conditions. They had the most wonderful talks. 
Everything in their minds, from the first conscious 
thought they could remember, had to be brought out 
for inspection: those approved, to be shared and deep¬ 
ened ; those rejected, to be thrown away. 

“However did we exist, years ago?” the girl exclaimed 
one day, while they sat by the river. “It wasn’t life,” 
she continued. “It was—how shall I describe it ?— 
paddling in surf instead of swimming in the sea. Dar- 
bury! Clothes, crops, servants, scandals! No other 
conversation, unless somebody quarreled and thrilled us 
for a few weeks. Or, occasionally, some one’s pig died, 
and we had that for breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner.” 

“The pig?” 

“No, silly! The cause of its death. Everybody had 
strong theories about it and waxed very solemn. Then 
there was the church. How sick I was of church argu- 


222 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


ments, church work and church workers! People were 
so intolerant of any little bit of ritual which didn’t ap¬ 
peal to them. Endless quarrels about the outside shell! 
All those ceaseless services and ceremonies left me quite 
cold. Don’t all the different sects and creeds seem far off 
and beside the point, here ?” 

“They do.” 

“But I suppose each is necessary to suit different tem¬ 
peraments,” she mused. 

“Yes; that’s why they are interesting,” he agreed, 
splashing the water about with his feet from his seat 
upon the river-bank. “You remind me of a friend of 
mine who sold his house in the Midlands because he 
heard of nothing but carburetors whenever he met a 
fellow-creature. He happened to be more than a me¬ 
chanic, poor devil! The world’s full of round pegs in 
square holes, but each peg is usually so damned intolerant 
of the other!” 

“I sometimes hope we never get rescued,” she ex¬ 
claimed, sitting up and clasping her knees. “Imagine 
going back to it all! Here we seem so near—God.” 

“We always shall be, wherever we go together,” he 
said, leaning his head back against her hands. “Wher¬ 
ever we are, you and I will always be at the heart of life 
now.” 

She laid her lips to his hair, thrilling to the truth of 
his words. 

Away in the wilderness she had found the “hidden 
want”: the love which, with all its many far-reaching sub¬ 
keys, can alone tune the extraordinary cosmology called 
life into any semblance of an harmonious whole. . . . 

Sometimes they played ridiculous games upon the sand, 
gambling with the money lying useless in their luggage. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


223 


“Give me the context of the following,” one of them 
would perhaps say, reeling off quotations that would 
have left the Reverend Horne breathless. The winnings 
were fairly even over this; but if geography provided 
the topic, Barbara became nearly bankrupt. By adroitly 
switching on to the Catechism, however, she recovered 
her fortune and half of his. Sometimes a string of dates 
opened the game, and history ruled. This was a good 
diversion, a kind of mental cricket. Each had an innings, 
beginning always with “1066, William I.” On one 
brilliant occasion Alan went successfully as far as Anne. 
Once Barbara reached George I, but was caught out, 
the little matter of Henry VIII having been forgotten. 

They hunted, fished, worked, bathed together. And, 
during these months, each learned much, which was ac¬ 
cumulated and stored within their hearts. 

Their clothes were in rags, but they made fun of the 
matter. Alan clung to his old razor, and Barbara to 
her scissors. 

“After all,” she said, “we can cover ourselves in reed¬ 
matting. Provided you don’t grow a beard, I can face 
anything.” * 

Six months of perfect happiness! It was against all 
the rules of fate; but even fate seemed to have cast off 
these two for a time. For some reason the world was 
made passing beautiful, and human beings placed in it 
without any choice. But the attainment, much less the 
possession, of permanent bliss therein has not been 
decreed. 

Hurled into the universe without choice, at least health 
and life’s bare necessities might reasonably be expected. 
But even these are often withheld. Yet there must be 
no impatience; no failure of gratitude for the few miser- 


224 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


able crumbs which fall occasionally into lives dark 
through suffering. Everything comes from God; and 
God is Love, they are told! Those who rebel are labeled 
“queer,” accused of limited vision, lack of faith in an 
underlying purpose. 

Platitudes console some people, and perhaps those so 
easily satisfied are to be envied. And if groping souls 
entangled in the intricacies of thought can not find the 
“heavenly harmony” for discord, maybe it is not really 
lost. No wild bird escapes from a room by impotently 
beating its wings against deceptive glass, then giving 
up in despair. It has to search for the open door. And 
searching may tire the limbs and never prove successful; 
but is strengthening to the constitution. 

At the end of six months, the first ominous cloud ap¬ 
peared. Chimabahoi the native chief, fell ill and died. 
Babooma became head of the tribe. 

No care or pity for his fellows permeated the hide of 
brutality encasing Babooma. All the worst instincts 
of the savage, held in check by the old chief under Croft’s 
influence, now rose to the surface. His own adherents, 
impatient of restraints, hailed him with joy. The division 
in the settlement became at once more evident: murmur¬ 
ing dissatisfaction upon one side, threats and tortures 
upon the other. 

The white man’s popularity had increased with the 
increase of health, cleanliness and industry among the 
natives. Now he took full advantage of it, and only 
his continuous intervention maintained order. The posi¬ 
tion, however, was fraught with danger. To continue 
to inspire a semi-superstitious fear after more than eigh¬ 
teen months was in itself a precarious task, only 
achieved by the weight of his own personality. Further- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


225 


more, he was confronted by Babooma’s personal hatred. 
From Roowa he had learned of the chief’s mania for 
women, and women were scarce in the tribe. White 
women no longer offended the black men’s instincts. . . . 

At present vivid memories of a wounded shoulder, 
blue devils hissing from round Croft’s hut, the supposi¬ 
tion of a hidden white tribe ever at hand, restrained 
Babooma from defiance of a man tabu. But familiarity 
and the scraps of education imparted by the white people 
were gaining upon superstition. ... It was only a 
matter of time. 

Alan walked home one night full of foreboding after 
a day in the south. Barbara, anxious-eyed, met him near 
the palm grove. 

“It isn’t safe for you to go alone to Babooma,” she 
said, linking her arm in his, noting the worry in his eyes, 
but forbearing comment. “What happened? You have 
been away for ages.” 

“Babooma had confiscated all the stored breadfruit,” 
he replied, “and ordered every man to surrender his share 
of the taro crop. Old Yolaano refused. So Babooma 
got wild and held the old fellow’s hands in the fire until 
most of the skin was burned off, to prevent his working 
on the land again.” 

She shuddered, hiding her face on his arm. “What 
have you done about it?” 

“I couldn’t do much—that’s the damned part of it all. 
I succeeded in scaring Babooma to death—for a time. 
He gave up the stuff and groveled. But it won’t last.” 

“Can’t you kill him?” 

He smiled a little at this calm request, while he unfast¬ 
ened the entrance in their palisade. “You bloodthirsty 
ex-parson’s daughter!” 


226 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“But he will ruin the entire tribe. Everything we 
have done will be undone.” 

“If everybody were put into the next world who upset 
other people’s efforts, the population would be small!” 
he laughed. “If I killed Babooma, civil war would break 
out. You must remember he has a large following.” 

“I am so afraid for you, Alan,” she owned. 

“He daren’t kill me.” 

She faced him on the threshold of the hut, a savage 
glint in her eyes. 

“If he did, I would kill him with my own hands! 
As I tried to do before; do you remember ?” 

“Could I forget?” he asked, passing an arm round her 
neck. “I foresee endless trouble if we ever get back to 
England! A savage wife following me about with loaded 
revolver, holding up the traffic in Piccadilly, firing upon 
policemen-” 

“Idiot!” She rubbed her head caressingly in the 
crook of his elbow. “There’s only one bullet left. I 

shall keep it for him, in case-” Leaving the sentence 

unfinished, she busied herself with preparations for sup¬ 
per, relating meanwhile the events of her own day. After¬ 
ward they went into their garden to plan certain improve¬ 
ment. By means of lumps of coral and small rocks, 
Barbara had persuaded the little stream to give a tiny 
waterfall, an achievement which she termed an engineer¬ 
ing feat, and showed with pride. 

“Laalo helped,” she said; “but he insisted afterward 
upon sitting at the bottom, so that the water fell all over 
him. He said he wanted to ‘wash white in the white 
chief’s river!’ ” 

Alan laughed, placing a foot upon the coral and letting 
the cool water ripple over his toes. 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


227 


“Laalo’s brain is beginning to work,” he observed 
thoughtfully. “The natives are learning to use their 
reasoning powers very quickly now. If ever we can 
bring the island into touch with the world, there is a 
foundation for trade on a small scale.” 

The girl glanced round the peaceful scene. 

“Wouldn’t everything be spoiled?” she exclaimed. 
“Imagine traders and sailors chattering and bartering in 
this bay. The natives would become half-civilized and 
completely ruined. It would be almost as bad as taking 
them to England.” 

“Oh!” he laughed, “that would be an interesting 
problem. Put them into huts in Kensington Gardens, 
and I wonder what would happen?” 

“Aunt Mary would measure the men for trousers.” 

“I believe you! Then the collector of rates and taxes 
would arrive, followed by the education authorities, not 
to mention representatives of every mission under the 
sun. Poor devils! wouldn’t they be wretched?” 

She gave a little grunt of sympathy, climbing into the 
hammock. 

“I can’t bear to think of it,” she exclaimed. “Whether 
a country should be left an undisturbed product of nature 
like this is, or civilized, is a difficult question, isn’t it? 
Money, position and externals of that sort, seem of such 
little importance now; but if once civilization stepped in 
they would begin to count, and the charm of the island 
would be lost.” 

Alan pushed her legs unceremoniously aside and sat 
on the edge of the hammock, swaying it with his foot. 
“That’s true,” he agreed; “but, as it is, the natives spoil 
things by their own stupidity. It proves that circum¬ 
stances don’t really count altogether: whether civilized 


228 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


or savage, we all make our own hell or heaven for our¬ 
selves and others.” 

Barbara had quickly perceived that her man, in spite 
of attempts at lightness, was seriously troubled concern¬ 
ing the tribe. Dimly aware herself of the first faint 
clouds in the brightness of their sky, heralding a possible 
storm, she sought to hide them, to keep their happiness 
undisturbed. 

“It is our heaven—here,” she replied, reaching for his 
hand. “Do you remember the desolation when we first 
came ?—when you called it hell ? Oh, Alan! our love 
seems now to overflow all around. I feel, somehow, 
different toward the whole worldl” 

He bent toward her with glowing eyes. “I feel like 
that, too,” he said simply. As he leaned down and 
passed his arms beneath and around her, she suddenly 
clasped him close. 

“Supposing it should end? I couldn’t bear to lose it 
all now.” 

“It can’t be lost,” he said quickly. “Every event 
that happens is one more added to our store of beautiful 
things. Even if it ceased, it would never be really lost!” 

She smiled a little. “That’s very beautiful and ideal¬ 
istic, but—horribly unsatisfying!” . . . 

During the following months this cloud grew ever more 
menacing. Those natives who, fundamentally brutal and 
idle, had not appreciated their enforced life of industry, 
quickly deteriorated under Babooma’s leadership. His 
adherents increased in number, as did his cruelties. 
There being insufficient grown women, he seized young 
girls, almost children, made them the toys of his lusts, 
and afterward they disappeared—sometimes, under 
cloak of religious fanaticism, upon the sacrificial altar 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


229 


to Balhuaka; sometimes to satiate his own appetite for 
human flesh. 

Many times Croft was on the point of utilizing that last 
bullet. But with it his influence would have vanished. 
Natives regard their own chief with extraordinary super¬ 
stition. To them he is permanently tabu. The next in 
rank was one of Babooma’s followers. Only more danger 
would have resulted for Barbara and himself, and prob¬ 
ably civil war in the settlement. These people were in¬ 
sisting on making their own hell, and nobody could 
save them short of exterminating half their number. 

The sense of fatalism permeating the native character 
affected Barbara. Her fears increased tenfold for Alan’s 
safety. She strove bravely to hide her growing premoni¬ 
tions of disaster, never attempting to hinder his labors 
among the tribe, insisting upon accompanying him. 

“Wherever you go I am going, too,” she protested. 

“Even into the stewpot?” he smiled. “What wifely 
devotion!” 

“If necessary,” she agreed, forcing herself to a gay tone 
of voice. “Soup with mixed ingredients is more tasty.” 
The never-failing stimulation of his personality, with 
its mixture of unexpected lightness and depth, caused 
her real happiness to remain established above all these 
fears. She experienced no regrets, no misgivings for the 
irrevocable step they had taken. A great understanding, 
a new outlook upon humanity, formed within her heart, 
softening and changing her old impatience when she 
thought of the modern world seething far away, or 
considered this prehistoric little world around her. Hu¬ 
manity, not civilization or environment, was at fault, 
defeating its own ends. It needed pity, tolerance, a great 
sympathy; above all loving help, not censure. . . . 


230 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


After a time Alan refused to allow her near the settle¬ 
ment. She said little. She passed long hours with 
Meamaa and her children, banishing the mental torture 
during his absence in the radiance of her welcome upon 
his return. 

But he noted silently the growing wistfulness of her 
face, the strain of eyes and nerves; felt the clinging of 
her hands. Sometimes he relegated all necessary work 
to Roowa, and they spent a long day in the boat, striving 
to recapture the unalloyed bliss of their “honeymoon.” 
But her old dislike of showing weakness remained, pre¬ 
venting the confidence which might have relieved her 
mind. Her face sharpened, and she grew thinner. . . . 

One night he returned, after a stormy day’s battling 
in the south, with his own optimism gravely shaken. It 
was, he knew, but a question of days before the threaten¬ 
ing mine should burst. The division had widened to an 
extent which only blood and explosion would, eventually, 
bridge; it needed but a match to the fuse, and that ex¬ 
plosion would come. 

Barbara did not meet him as usual. He wondered a 
little, making his way quickly down to their hut. Supper 
was ready, but she was not there. He looked into the 
sleeping-hut, but that also was empty. Anxiously he 
turned his steps toward Roowa’s abode. Meamaa sat 
outside, suckling a new addition to her family, crooning 
softly over the little dark form. 

She waved an arm toward the east. 

“The great chief’s wife went up to the heights long, 
long ago! Meamaa still watching for her,” she said. 

He strode off up the slope, and the native woman con¬ 
tinued her crooning song. 

• Barbara was seated upon the rocks where, nearly a 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


231 


year before, the dawn had witnessed their simple mar¬ 
riage ceremony. Her elbows were propped on her knees, 
her chin was sunk in her hands. 

Alan approached noiselessly, but she became instinc¬ 
tively aware of his presence. He noticed a strange ex¬ 
pression in her eyes as she turned to greet him: a far- 
seeing wonder blended with a tenderness which seemed 
reflected in the smiling, tremulous lines of her mouth. 

She silently stretched out her hands, and he took them 
in his mystified. 

“I wondered what had become of you-” he began. 

“I felt I must come here. This always seems a kind of 
sacred temple, our own. . . . Oh, Alan!” 

She gazed into his face half-smiling, yet with a suspic¬ 
ion of tears dimming the soft light in her eyes. 

“What, dear?” he asked, more puzzled. 

She made no reply; but the glory in her face seemed to 
deepen, radiating toward him. . . . Loosing his hands, 
her arms crept up to his shoulders, round his neck, 
drawing his head down to her own. 

A sudden, vague realization of some stupendous hap¬ 
pening caused him to draw her close. “What is it, Bar¬ 
bara ?” he murmured. “What are you trying to tell me ?” 

She tilted her head back a little, and saw the dawning 
comprehension in his face. A faint smile flickered again 
across her own. 

“Can't you guess—my husband?” 

Instantly he was conscious of the same inimitable ten¬ 
derness in her regard which he had just seen in the 
eyes of the woman suckling her child. The same mysteri¬ 
ous essence of motherhood seemed to emanate from both. 
With a muttered cry, his lips sought hers; he caught her 
close, pressing her to his heart as if daring all the forces 





232 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


of nature, all the venom of savage humanity, to take her 
from him now. 

As he held her, a great and unusual humility enwrapped 
him. During this past year the old arrogance of man 
exulting in the capture of his mate had Softened; her 
essential womanliness had brought out all the chivalry 
and tenderness of his inner nature. It is the masculine 
caricature of womanhood which crushes these latent 
flowers in man, freezing them like spring frosts where 
soft sunshine is needed. Afterward, when complaining 
of having lost his affection, these women never look 
within themselves and realize that they have played havoc 
with all his cherished ideals while boasting of their imag¬ 
inary emancipation. Home-breakers instead of home¬ 
makers, they are but enthralled the more: this time in 
emptiness, in the loveless misery following upon short¬ 
sightedness. 

Alan felt a passionate reverence for the spirit of all 
true womanhood well up within him, understanding the 
great generosity, the unwavering loyalty and courage, of 
his particular sanctuary into which he had won his way. 
. . . For a while, as he bowed his face upon her short 
curly hair, he forgot the dangers looming ahead, and 
thought only of the wonder of her and her love. 

Suddenly, impulsively, she looked up into his eyes. 

“Shall you love—It?” she whispered. 

A reflection of her own tenderness showed in the smile 
which answered her. The glory of the sinking sun il¬ 
luminated his face. 

“Shall I?” he breathed. “My dearest—what a ques¬ 
tion!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


233 


VI 

Hand in hand they descended the hill, full of this 
fresh wonder. After supper they sat on the shore 
in the moonlight, talking in low tones of the future, mak¬ 
ing wonderful plans. . . . 

“You will have to educate—It!” she remarked sud¬ 
denly, after a silent flight into realms of imagination. 

“Lord!” he ejaculated. He sat and watched the water 
musingly, for a time. “The island for schoolroom, na¬ 
ture for books-” 

“And what shall we call It?” she broke in, off on 
another flight. 

He lay back upon the beach, and laughed up into her 
eyes. “You little mother!” he whispered. 

Both possessed that curious sensitiveness to nature 
which compels one, in any crisis, to make for open spaces, 
limitless horizons of ocean. ... It was after midnight 
when at last they went to bed. The night breeze had 
died down, and a peculiar sense of airlessness pervaded 
the island; the water became calm to oiliness. 

“We shall have a thunder-storm soon,” Alan observed, 
closing the outer door of the hut. 

Barbara was restless, and lay long awake. The strange 
stillness with its sensation of false calm heralding 
approaching tempest, revived her premonitions of disas¬ 
ter. When at last she fell asleep, it was only to be tor¬ 
tured with the same premonitions magnified into night¬ 
mare realities. She awoke gasping and sobbing in Alan’s 
arms, and clung to him feverishly. 

“I dreamed you had disappeared,” she cried, in be¬ 
wildered explanation. 

“How could that happen?” He soothed her. “How 
could my bulk disappear? Don’t talk nonsense!” 



234 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


But she was unstrung by the vividness of it all. 

“I can’t endure the possibility of our life together ever 
ending!” she cried passionately. “It’s so perfect here. 
We’re so happy.” 

“So rapturously happy!” he agreed, holding her close. 
“You mustn’t get morbid thoughts, darling; especially 
now. Why should it end? It will soon be fuller than 
ever. We are going to hand on the torch: think of the 
glory of that.—The biggest invention that ever happened! 
To-morrow we will go out in the boat, and blow away 
these cobwebs. . . 

But the morrow brought a very different program. 

They breakfasted later than usual, and had barely fin¬ 
ished when the noise of many agitated voices reached 
their ears. 

Glancing apprehensively at each other, they hurried 
out of the hut. 

The sky was leaden, hues of angry orange suffusing 
the horizon, the air oppressive. From the direction of the 
palm grove streamed a hurrying, chattering crowd of 
black figures—men, women and children. 

Croft’s brow contracted, and his lips set. The mine 
had evidently exploded even sooner than he expected. 

Seeing him, a wailing cry arose from the advancing 
crowd. Weary and terrified, they stumbled forward to 
the palisade, where the women fell upon the ground, 
moaning, weeping, waving wild arms, sometimes adding 
their voices to the unintelligible babble of the men. To 
comprehend their meaning was at present" impossible. 
With Barbara close by him, he waited inside the fence, 
his hands resting on the top, silently watching the rabble 
without, conscious of a great pity and love for these 
children of nature who had evidently come to him for 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


235 


protection. Their implicit trust thrilled his heart with 
as much pride as when, during the war, more than one 
coveted decoration had been pinned upon his breast. 

Presently their talk grew more coherent: he was able 
to make out its drift. 

“We will serve thee, O Great White Chief! . . . Thou 
art merciful! Thou art wise beyond the wisdom of our 
men! ... We will work for thee, O Chief! Thou carest 
not to torture and kill. . . . A-aa! A-aa! . . . Thou 
hast done much for our tribe. Under thee it will become 
strong, if thou wilt be our chief. The fruits of the earth 
will grow, the fish leap up from the water! . . . We love 
thee, O Mighty Friend of the Gods! We will serve 
thee! . . Thus, and much more with a similar bur¬ 
den, did they babble in their eagerness. 

Listening, the memory of a night two years before 
flashed across his mind—when these same primitive men 
had come with intent to kill, learning their fear of him 
through his adaptation of electrical science; when the 
dawn of the world had seemed to meet the twentieth 
century’s wonders face to face, each exposed in unneces¬ 
sary antipathy, with the same human thread of fear and 
self-protection connecting them. 

Commanding silence, he bade one of them explain the 
cause of this visitation. 

Babooma, it transpired, soon after Croft’s departure 
the previous evening, had worked himself into a passion. 
Expressing contempt for the white man and his gods, he 
raised the tabu. Encouraged by his own adherents, he 
then declared war upon the white chief with instant 
death to all who thwarted his designs. This set the fuse 
alight. An outburst of murmuring disloyalty to Babooma 
warred with the usual superstitious fear of him as their 


236 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


god-ordained chief; while their genuine affection for 
Croft flared up to white heat. To prove his words, mad¬ 
dened by opposition, Babooma seized and strangled one 
of the men who dared openly to rebel. 

This was too much for the peaceful faction. Secretly 
and swiftly, they conspired together, under cover of night. 
While the rest of the tribe slept, they stole out—some 
eighty odd, including women and children—and sped 
through the woods to the north. 

This drastic move meant a tremendous decision, bound 
around as they were with age-old superstitions. To 
renounce the authority of their own chief only equaled 
in audacity the act of throwing themselves upon the 
mercy of a white being, lovable yet terrifying, whose 
powers were supernatural. The consciousness of the 
irrevocability of their deed overwhelmed them now; and 
it was a forlorn, terror-stricken little band which Croft 
presently addressed. He spoke kindly, trying to allay their 
fear, feeling a certain relief that the anticipated trouble 
had occurred so soon. Most of the men, he noticed, 
were fully armed: therefore it should not be impossible 
to overthrow Babooma and, once for all, quell the sav¬ 
age element. 

“Whether I can be your chief or not is in the hands 
of my gods,” he concluded, with prudent piety; “but rest 
assured of my protection. Your women and children are 
tired from the long walk through the forest. Let them 
come inside our garden for safety and food.” 

He opened the entrance in the palisade. Awestruck 
into silence, they filed through, their minds full of the 
“little blue devils,” experienced here by their menfolk. 
Might these not spring up and burn them even now at 
the great white chief’s command ? They squatted in one 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


237 


close group, hungry and grateful for all they received, 
following Barbara’s movements with adoring, wondering 
eyes, as she distributed food. Their faith in Croft 
equaled their faith in their god, Balhuaka; once within 
the palisade, their fears of Babooma sank. The men, 
resting outside, kept a sharp watch for any daylight 
attack. Roowa was sent to feed them. Alan went indoors 
to attend to his store of native weapons. . . . Presently 
the excited visitors in the garden, tired and satisfied, fell 
asleep. . . . 

The leaden sky grew more lowering; an angry breeze 
rustled the palm-tops and stirred the oily water. The 
surf began to boom portentously against the reef; the 
waves of the lagoon, usually so gentle, broke roughly 
upon the shore. Rain began to fall in big splashing 
drops, waking the sleeping women. A sudden vivid flash 
of lightning brought them to their feet with wild cries of 
fear, which were swallowed up in a deafening roar of 
thunder. 

For a few minutes pandemonium reigned. The fright¬ 
ened children cried, and their mothers wailed, not know¬ 
ing if this were the wrath of the white chief’s gods, or 
that of Balhuaka overtaking them for forsaking their 
own leader. Like terrified sheep, they obeyed Croft’s 
directions, huddling together in the original kitchen hut. 

“It’s going to be a grand storm,” he said to Barbara. 

All the artillery of the skies seemed to be massed 
above; all the cavalry of the universe charged through 
the waving tree-tops, swaying their slender trunks, or 
bending down the branches of the forest giants under the 
heavy downpour of rain. Great zigzag flashes rent the 
darkened sky over the tossing waves; the angry surf 
hurled white crests of foam high into the air against the 


238 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


reef, retreating with a roaring hiss for yet another charge. 
Once—twice—and yet again, came a rattling report like 
that of musketry; and each time one of the trees not far 
away received its death-warrant 

Barbara talked to the women, trying to allay their 
fears, helping to soothe the crying children. Croft cheered 
them with bland assurances of this wrath of the gods 
being directed at Babooma, not themselves. The elec¬ 
tricity around, and the rolling crashes of thunder, stirred 
his blood in much the same way as the booming guns of 
war had done, a few years before. The primitive savage 
in him was impatient to get at grips with his enemy; 
the latent spirit of fatherhood stirred in his veins as he 
watched Barbara holding Meamaa’s baby in her arms. 

She smiled at him over the tiny dark face. 

“He looks so serious; doesn’t he? Why do babies 
always look so old and wise, Alan?” 

“Perhaps they die old in a previous existence, and 
hurry into the next too soon?” he suggested, touching 
the wrinkled little forehead with his finger. 

Then his glowing eyes met hers; and she drew a quick 
breath. . . . 

The storm was long and severe. Gradually, however, 
it tired itself out, dying down with fitful spurts of re¬ 
newed energy and blazes of life, until, soon after midday, 
the island was bathed in a great calm. The sun struggled 
out of hiding; birds fluttered from their retreats, to 
shake their wet wings; all the exquisite, subtle scents of 
flower and herbage stole forth and blended in an inde¬ 
scribable sweetness. 

Croft deemed it expedient to wait for Babooma to 
attack. To attempt a return with these tired men risked 
meeting the enemy in the interstices of the forest, where 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


239 


open fighting would be impossible. Given at last the 
excuse, he determined to take no avoidable chances in 
attempting the extermination of the growing menace to 
the prosperity of the tribe. He therefore inspected their 
weapons, arming those who had forgotten sword, spear 
or arrow; afterward, with Roowa as adjutant, he posted 
part of his little army round the tent, and issued direc¬ 
tions. A few men were sent in search of fresh fruits 
along the north of the forest, Alan busying himself with 
the remainder in strengthening the hut and palisade. 
With the revolver, loaded with its one remaining bullet, 
in her belt, Barbara found her time fully occupied with 
the problem of preparing sufficient food for these unin¬ 
vited guests. Her usual store of cocoanuts and dried 
breadfruit would have been insufficient, had not Alan 
experimented of late in the drying and storing of food¬ 
stuff—partly with some vague foresight of this contin¬ 
gency ; but chiefly for outlet to his inborn instinct for 
experiment. 

As the sun moved round to the west, a great tran¬ 
quillity fell upon the island so recently storm-tossed. It 
reached her heart, soothing the old forebodings even in 
face of their possible fulfilment . . . Suddenly she 
started from her peaceful employment, and her cheeks 
blenched. A shrill cry of fear had sounded beyond the 
garden. . . . Another arose, yet another. . . . She 
hurried out of the hut, meeting Alan running from the 
landward end of the palisade, where he had been work¬ 
ing. Outside the seaward entrance, a group of natives 
clustered together, chattering excitedly, staring at some 
far point in the sky. At sight of Croft, their agitation 
increased. 

“A-aab a-aa! Great Chief, behold!” they cried, 


240 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


pointing upward. “See! A great bird approacheth. 
Hearken to the sound of his wings, the cry of his wrath! 
A-aa! A bird of ill omen, O Mighty Chief!” They 
began to wail and moan, striking their breasts. Others 
joined them, taking up the cry: “A bird of ill omen! 
A-aa! a-aa! A bird of ill omen, O Mighty Chief!” 

He shaded his eyes with his hands, searching the 
dazzling blue. 

Suddenly his arms fell to his sides; and he turned to 
the girl. 

“By God! It’s an aeroplane! Coming this way, too!” 

He called to Roowa. “Go, Roowa! run! Take fire 
to the beacon upon the hill! Make it to blaze fast and 
high! Go—swift as the lightning flash-!” 

Roowa did not hesitate. To him this beacon meant 
some strange religious rite known only to the white 
chief and his gods. Not doubting that its ignition 
would save them all from some new doom, he fled for a 
torch. 

Far off, the noise of her engines but faintly audible, 
the unmistakable outline of an aeroplane showed at a 
great height, flying toward the island from the north. 

The natives, forgetting all instructions, clustered 
together, full of superstitious terror. The women and 
children left the garden and huddled near their men, a 
few moaning, the rest silent from fear of this new 
Unknown. 

Alan’s fingers gripped Barbara’s arm, and they ran 
down to the shore. With faces pale and tense, they 
stood there motionless, their hearts racing chaotically, 
their eyes fixed upon the speck growing ever larger, 
looming nearer and nearer. . . . The distant drone of 
the engines became louder. . . . From the hilltop a 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


241 


column of smoke rose into the clear air; soon a leaping 
flame mingled with it . . . another shot up higher. ... 
As the machine whirred, loudly and swiftly, to within a 
few hundred yards, still flying high, the pile of sticks and 
leaves, branches and undergrowth—quickly dried in the 
afternoon sun—burned, and roared, and leaped, the red 
tongues of fire and billowing smoke showing clear against 
the blue of sea and sky. 

“Will they see it?” muttered Alan. 

He waved wildly; but the aeroplane flew serenely on, 
skirting the island, toward the west. 

“Damn them!” he ejaculated. “They must see that 
fire!” 

Barbara held her breath, every nerve taut. But as 
the strain seemed to reach breaking-point, the machine 
slackened speed. With sudden cessation of noise, her 
engines were shut off, and she came swiftly down in 
large circles until low over the water; then she turned 
and flew slowly back outside the barrier reef. Turning 
again, she rose a little, flying up toward the beacon— 
then round again, and back to the reef. 

Alan could recognize her now for a seaplane. Seeing 
two figures upon her, once more he waved, shouting 
vociferously. ... With a graceful swoop down, again 
she turned, sinking lower and lower; until at last she 
rested upon the calm waters of the lagoon, and came 
skimming lightly toward the shore. . . . 

A silence of horror had fallen upon the natives. Some 
dropped on their knees or flung themselves on their faces, 
not daring to look seaward; others stood still as death, 
their glittering eyes never wavering from the figure of 
their white chief, their hands grasping their weapons— 
ready at a word to dash forward, with their blood-curdling 


242 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


yells, to his aid. . . . Then one or two rubbed their eyes, 
as if unable to see aright. . . . The white chief was 
wading out, unarmed, into the rippling wavelets, to meet 
the awful bird of ill omen. . . . They looked fearfully at 
one another; then held their breath. . . . He had re¬ 
turned to land. ... Two queer figures enveloped in 
much clothing, with fearsome goggle eyes protruding 
from their heads, were descending from between the vast 
wings. . . . The white chief and his wife were talking, 
laughing, wringing their hands again and again. . . . 
But lo! the huge eyes fell from those faces. . . . The 
natives lifted up their voices in a howl of fear. . . . 

Down by the water, a babel of English and French 
voices, torrents of questions pouring forth in both 
languages, the replies unheeded in the mutual relief, 
surprise and excitement! The two Frenchmen mixed 
both tongues indiscriminately, shaking the Englishman’s 
hands again and again, kissing those of the girl in their 
demonstrative exuberance. 

They had, it transpired, been swept from their bearings 
in the thunder-storm, having accepted a bet to fly from 
America to Honolulu, thence to Australia, in their small 
seaplane. While endeavoring to recapture their route 
between the two latter places, faced with engine trouble, 
they had perceived the beacon flaring below. . . . They 
introduced themselves—Philippe and Louis de Borceau, 
thirsting for adventure to enliven the monotony of post¬ 
war existence. 

“And you, M’sieu? You say you live here for two 
years; ouif ... Mon Dieu!” Philippe’s eyes, travel¬ 
ing quickly over the scene, in their goggles, alighted 
suddenly upon the negro figures. For a moment he stood 
transfixed; then he grasped his brother’s arm. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


243 


“Diable! Canneebles !” Crossing himself with his 
free hand, he looked quickly at Croft; while Louis 
whipped off his goggles in horrified amazement The 
howl from many throats arose with disconcerting 
abruptness. 

Croft threw back his head in a burst of boyish laughter. 

“They are friends! Don’t be alarmed.” 

Advancing a few steps, he addressed the bewildered 
natives in words whose utter unintelligibility caused the 
two strangers to gaze at him, then at the girl, an uneasy 
suspicion rising in their minds that the Englishman’s 
brain had softened. However, relief was obvious among 
the group of blacks, and a murmur of voices broke 
forth. . . . 

Croft returned; and further explanations were given. 
Bit by bit the excited Frenchmen grasped the main facts 
of this extraordinary situation. 

“Votre nom?” cried the elder. “En route to VAus - 
tralie, you tell us ? But I remember— dites-moi —quick—• 
your name, M’sieu?” 

Upon hearing it, the little Frenchman danced. 

“del! I remember!” cried Louis. “All de vorld 
was interested! It was thought you all perish. But you 

and-” He paused. He glanced at Barbara, at the 

hand which, instinctively, she had clasped round Alan’s 
arm. . . . 

And in that pause, something cold and clammy seemed 
to clutch the girl’s heart, causing her to grip closer the 
arm she held. 

Alan put his hand over hers. 

“My wife,” he said very clearly. 

Both the Frenchmen now remembered the stir caused 
by the loss of the aeroplane and all on board. They 


244 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


remembered the many accounts and photographs of those 
missing, which had appeared in the press of several 
countries. The momentary silence might have been 
awkward with men of a different nationality. But it was 
quickly broken by the elder, who stepped forward, bowed 
with all his native courtliness, and raised the girl’s hand 
to his lips. 

“Madame Croft—your servant. We shall, I hope, be 
of much serveece to you and your husband.” 

Nobody at that moment realized the incongruity of the 
old world French manners upon this rough coral shore, 
with the barefooted English man and girl in their thread¬ 
bare scanty garments. 

Something seemed to contract in Barbara’s throat, 
rendering speech impossible. 

The world had thrown a shadow across the perfect blue. 

Proud of their home, they led their guests thither for 
food, when the seaplane had been safely beached. There 
during the meal, they explained the native trouble. The 
idea of fighting anything or anybody thrilled both these 
adventurous young men. 

“Vat guns have you?” they asked, “vat ammunitions?” 

When informed of the lack of firearms, and shown the 
bows, arrows, spears and crossed wooden swords, they 
sat and gasped. The weapons, no less than the hut, with 
its many ingenious devices for use and comfort, aroused 
their keenest interest. 

“Eh! But it is a leetle paradise!” cried Philippe. 
“Vat you call 'cosay!’ All ze chairs! And a table! And 
ze flowers!” He turned to Barbara, when Alan went 
out to restore order among the natives. “You have 
turned ze wilderness into home, Madame! It is dat you 
•vill not like to leave it! Oui?” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


245 


She looked around the familiar room she loved so well, 
out through the doorway to the black figures in the 
garden, which had been such a pride. She saw the eve¬ 
ning sunlight turning the indigo blue of the lagoon to 
gold, as she had so often loved to watch it do—and again 
she felt her heart contract. 

The shadowy outside world had once more become a 
tangible reality. 

VII 

The engine trouble proved more serious than the 
Frenchmen had anticipated. Any idea of a dash to 
civilization for succor was abandoned. Until the sun had 
set and the moon risen, the three men worked upon it, 
Croft with the delight of a child over the return of some 
long-lost toy. When a short trial trip was made, he 
took the pilot’s seat. 

A wail of distress rose from the natives when he 
climbed into the machine. After taxi-ing her about, he 
skimmed lightly over the lagoon and rose gracefully into 
the darkening sky, managing her with the sure delicate 
touch of the expert—glorying in the old familiar noise 
and vibration, the rush of air, and sense of infinite free¬ 
dom, as he soared out over the reef. 

Another sharp spasm of pain shot through Barbara’s 
heart, as she looked round upon the faces she knew so 
well. Much as rescue would mean to them both, the 
thought of renouncing their free life here filled her with 
grief. The prospect of bowing again to all the little rules 
making a maze of civilization chilled her. The analogy 
presented itself to her mind of being slowly caught up 
into some huge net spreading over the universe, beyond 
which lay this little wilderness where she had dwelt and 
learned to love. 


246 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


With increasing heaviness of heart she pacified the 
wailing natives, bewildered by these strange events; and 
her smile at their vociferous welcome of their white 
chief, upon his return, was akin to tears. 

Croft’s instinct was to send her away to immediate 
safety; but that proved impossible. He conferred 
lengthily with the two brothers, under cover of their 
work together. Afterward, leaving Louis to finish, he 
and Philippe went indoors to pore over charts, discuss 
routes and conclude arrangements. When, later, the two 
aviators, dead tired after their adventures, were rolled 
in their huge coats upon the floor, the native men posted 
and prepared for all emergencies outside, the women 
and children packed safely, if like sardines, within the 
kitchen and sitting-room huts, he drew Barbara into their 
bedroom and unfolded the plans. 

Should Babooma attack in the night, the Frenchmen, 
however zealous, would obviously fail to distinguish 
friends from foe. Their responsibility, therefore, would 
be the safeguarding of the women and children in the 
hut—Barbara’s welfare being their special consideration. 

“Should things go badly, and Babooma manage to 
do me in,” he continued hurriedly, “trust yourself en¬ 
tirely to them: they know what to do and where to go. 
If, after all, he doesn’t attack, but waits for us to move, 
Philippe de Borceau will take you away at daybreak and 
send help. His brother will stay with me.” 

She demurred hotly to this, unwilling to leave him in 
danger, protesting against being compelled to desert her 
post among the frightened women. The argument 
waxed long and heated between them. But, when 
Croft’s mind was finally and irrevocably made up, anger 
and tears proved unavailing. Only by reminding her 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


247 


of the debt owed to another; by prevailing upon all her 
rising motherhood, did he at last break down her resist¬ 
ance. 

“But my mental agonies will be worse than physical 
ones!” she assured him, rebelliously. “I hope Babooma 
attacks to-night. Then we can face him together, and 
know the result.” 

The two Frenchmen being utterly worn out, he forbore 
to suggest their going at once by moonlight; over which 
forced delay she secretly exulted. 

As they sat together upon what would probably be 
their last night on the island, watching through an 
aperture as they had done two years before, his heart, too, 
was rather full. It is ever the woman whose quickness 
of perception grasps a point first in its entirety, while the 
man is working through the details. The crowded events 
of the day: news of the world of action, with its revival 
of old interests, the delight of the aviator in the touch of a 
machine once more, the preparation of schemes for 
thwarting a native attack and insuring Barbara’s safety, 
had engrossed him to the extinction of other emotions. 
Much as he loved his life of nature, its scope and possi¬ 
bilities were limited for a man of enterprise. His zest 
for old activities began to revive, as he talked with De 
Borceau. 

Now he, too, realized vividly the loss as well as gain 
which faced them. Stepping back from the window, he 
sat beside her on their ingeniously contrived bed, in 
silence; but the sudden clasp of his hand told her more 
than words; and she returned it, unable to restrain the 
tears. 

The stillness around was intense. Now and then it was 
broken by the cry of a child, quickly hushed again. 


248 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Within the palisade, the black forms of the men lay close 
to the ground, with here and there a pair of eyes watch¬ 
ing, sentinels, between the stakes. Another small party 
lay ambushed in the scrub on the hill rising beside the 
hut—the idea being to waylay the enemy, should he come 
that way, or to fall upon the waddling forms as they 
approached down the bay by the usual route; thus draw¬ 
ing them into battle away from the hut and the women 
and children. Babooma’s strength numbered about the 
same as their own. With the two Frenchmen to protect 
the girl from treachery, Croft felt pretty confident over 
the result of any night attack. Well aware of the black 
chief’s desires for her, he had warned De Borceau of this 
danger. 

“If things go against us and you see me bowled over, 
don’t wait—don’t risk a moment—go!” he had insisted, 
“even if it means physical force!” 

And De Borceau, like many another, found himself 
following this man’s behests, with a zeal and fealty in¬ 
spired solely by personality. He swore obedience to the 
last letter. 

Laying his cheek against hers, Alan became aware, in 
the moonlit darkness, of the tears upon it. 

“Not crying?” he whispered. 

She buried her face in his shoulder, saying nothing. 

“It has been very beautiful,” he murmured, stroking 
her hair. 

Trifling memories fraught with much meaning rose in 
both their hearts; tiny incidents, themselves of no partic¬ 
ular purport, humorous little scenes together—all of 
which would soon be but fragments of a receding dream 
—moved like a panorama through their minds. Both 
had felt deeply here: the deepest chords of their lives 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


249 


had been sounded in this small island. It is ever the 
environment where the depths have been stirred which 
grips the heart. Other places, however transcendent 
their beauty, never become so dear. The ugly back 
street where a man and maid first kiss and avow their 
love, will always appear more lovely, in their eyes, than 
the blue lakes of Italy, or Switzerland’s snow-capped 
peaks. . . . 

“We will come back—some day,” he consoled her 
presently. 

“Yes, yes!” she urged eagerly. “Often, Alan!” 

Then they began to plan their future—picturing the 
journey together to England, the greetings, the meetings 
with those who thought them dead. . . . And ever the 
man’s keen eyes watched the shadowy scene without, 
his ears alert to every sound, as they had been on that 
other night long ago. . . . 

Presently, as before, he leaned quickly forward. For 
again the faint sound of breaking twigs had reached him. 
. . . Again, near the outskirts of the palm grove, he had 
caught sight of a shadowy form. 

Barbara rose with him, aware without words that the 
moment of desperate action was upon them; glad of it, 
since now she could face the danger with her man. 

“I must go,” he murmured. 

For a moment she clung to him. “Take care!” she 
whispered passionately. “Oh, my dearest, do take care L” 

Gently he disengaged himself, and kissed her. 

“I shall be all right. Go to the women, Barbara, and 
keep them indoors.” He hurried to the entrance; then 
turned back again. “Don’t forget, if- Trust your¬ 
self to De Borceau if-” Not finishing the sentence 

she dreaded to hear, he once more turned to go. 




250 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


A tiny choked exclamation escaped her lips. He looked 
quickly round. Swiftly, with a sudden passionate move¬ 
ment, he seized her in his arms, straining her fiercely to 
him; then, as swiftly, he released her, and she found 
herself alone. 

The task of keeping the women within the comparative 
safety of the hut proved no sinecure; sometimes it was 
only achieved by sheer physical force. The greater the 
noise without, the higher rose the pandemonium within. 
Children cried; women wailed and shrieked, their fear of 
the two white strangers almost equaling their fear of 
Babooma. Only the presence of Barbara, with her ex¬ 
traordinary calm, succeeded in maintaining a semblance 
cf order. Her coolness was unnatural. The Frenchmen 
marveled, as they watched her. This was no hard- 
featured, bold-eyed Amazon; yet they saw no trace of 
highly-strung nerves held under with iron control. When 
the din outside came nearer, proving Babooma to have 
forced his way through the distant ambush; when fre¬ 
quent arrows or spears hurtled through the air and buried 
themselves in the frail bamboo, or even pierced their way 
to the rooms within, only a more rigid set of her lips was 
noticeable, a more determined light in her eyes. 

The battle waged long and furious. For a time the 
men hidden on the hillside, after surprising the little 
army wriggling down the bay, kept it fiercely engaged, 
away from the hut. But gradually, to the girl’s strained 
ears, the wild struggle seemed to draw nearer. . . . 
Presently, as she could tell by the excited yells close by, 
those men guarding the hut itself were attacked. . . . 

The lust for blood, every primitive instinct in the 
savage, was roused on each side: the fight would be 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


251 


to the death. No mercy would be shown until one or 
the other of the parties was completely vanquished. Like 
mad snarling dogs with foaming mouths, they grappled 
and fought—blood-stained, wounded, but never relin¬ 
quishing their maniacal fury. That Alan was in the 
thick of the hideous hubbub Barbara knew full well. What 
might be happening to him she dared not pause to think. 
. . . The hell of hate had been opened and its demons 
let loose, as it had been opened in civilized lands not long 
before. Then the innocent barbarians had suffered from 
its echoes; now the reverse was the case. . . . 

The fighting blood of the Frenchmen tingled within 
them; they fingered their extraordinary, clumsy weapons, 
impatient to hurl themselves out into the fray—yet in¬ 
stinctively submitting to their orders, realizing the 
wisdom of the leader who had appointed each man his 
task with supreme insight into detail. . . . 

Soon the uproar raged round the palisade. Every now 
and then, a crashing, ripping sound was heard, proving 
portions to have been burst through and trampled down. 
The scuffling feet, snorting breath, muttered cries, blood¬ 
curdling shouts and yells, were close. . . . Penetrating 
the bamboo walls came venomous spear-points and sharp 
arrow-heads, sometimes piercing the shoulders of those 
standing near. . . . The women grew demented. . . . 
Barbara tried, unsuccessfully, to keep as many as possible 
in the central hut, where only the two end-walls were 
exposed to the weapons; these points the Frenchmen 
guarded, ready for any onslaught. . . . 

Simultaneously, with dramatic suddenness, three things 
happened to end the terrible period of waiting. 

With a startling crash, the outer wall of the sleeping- 
hut gave way, and in surged a fighting medley of black 


252 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


figures. . . . From the other side, or kitchen, a cloud of 
smoke and crackling flame arose. . . . The hut was on 
fire! 

All power of restraining the women was past. As the 
Frenchmen dashed forward to meet the intruders on one 
side, and the black smoke bellied in from the other, they 
turned with one accord, struggled madly in their stam¬ 
pede for the main entrance, then streamed out—wild with 
terror—into the cold gray of the early dawn. . . . 

At the same time, from without, amid the general 
hubbub, one loud wailing cry arose, in a mixture of 
native and broken English tongues—a frightened, agon¬ 
ized cry: “The white chief; A-aa! a-aa! The white 
chief! . . . The white chief! . . . A-aa! a-aa! a-aa!” 

It reached the ashen-faced girl within . . . and of that 
alone was she conscious. The roaring flames and blind¬ 
ing smoke, the struggling black men and shouting stream 
of women, faded from her eyes. Her work was finished 
here, and she never hesitated. Without a backward 
glance, she drew the revolver from her belt and dashed 
outside. . . . 

The little garden was a trampled ruin: the broken 
stakes of the palisade lay about the ground, tripping up 
unwary feet. Looking neither to right nor left, she fled 
round the hut in the direction of that rising ominous 
wail. ... A jumble of dark forms heaving, retreating, 
closing up again like a swarm of bees, was all she could 
at first distinguish, in the faint light. . . . Then, sud¬ 
denly, in a momentary clearing, two figures showed dis¬ 
tinct—one white, one black—locked together in a death 
struggle, each dripping with blood, fiendishly intent to 
kill. . . . They vanished again among the mass of their 
supporters. . . . 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


253 


As she ran, gasping, up the slope, she paid no heed to 
her own danger—was unaware of both black and white 
men from the hut following in hot pursuit. . . . Again 
the dense medley parted before her eyes. At the same 
instant a spear sped through the air. Whizzing angrily 
past her, straight at the two struggling forms, it flew 
with unerring judgment and buried its hideous point in 
the white man’s back. He reeled, loosed his antagonist, 
threw groping arms wide. With a demoniacal cry of 
triumph, Babooma made a spring. . . . 

As twice before, a sharp report reverberated, and the 
seething mass was momentarily obscured by smoke. . . . 

A pair of black hands grasped the girl’s arms as she 
tottered backward, dropping her smoking weapon. For 
a brief instant she recognized Roowa’s face, which 
seemed to merge into that of De Borceau ; then her senses 
slipped from her, and everything faded into oblivion. . . . 

Not knowing friend from foe, the struggle for her 
unconscious body was sharp and furious. But the two 
Frenchmen were fresh and uninjured; and Roowa’s 
supporters had rushed on, in wild distress, to that other 
seething heap. . . . Just one glimpse of two prostrate 
forms being hoisted, amid a frenzy of fighting, wails 
and shouts—and the two white men devoted themselves 
to their oath. . . . 

On trembling knees at last, bleeding, helpless, his cries 
drowned by the noise around and the roaring flames 
from the hut, Roowa watched the strangers seize the 
inert form of his white chief’s wife, and disappear toward 
the coast. . . . 

The thick fighting mass had dissolved into odd 
struggling groups of twos and threes; the prostrate forms 
had disappeared. Away near the palm grove could be 


2 54 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


seen a quickly vanishing crowd of dark figures. . . . The 
flames belched forth from the burning hut, overcoming 
the early daylight. . . . 

Presently the steady monotonous drone of retreating 
engines blended with the rising wind of the dawn. 


PART FOUR 


BROKEN HARMONY 

I 

Miss Davies placed a marker in her book; then 
laid it down upon a small table. Her face assumed 
the complacent expression of one about to perform a 
pleasant duty in accordance with her conscience. 

“I think,” she observed decisively, “Hugh should be 
warned.” 

Mrs. Stockley glanced up from the stole she was em¬ 
broidering. “About what?” she asked, 

“Barbara.” 

Her sister made a gesture of annoyance, which caused 
her to prick her finger; this increased her irritation. 

“I wish you would for once be explicit, Mary! You 
have thrown out dark hints about Barbara ever since we 
heard of her rescue. Why should Hugh be warned ?” 

Miss Davies leaned forward and poked the fire into a 
more cheerful blaze, feeling a smug sense of comfort in 
its warmth as she listened to the wind howling outside. 
Sitting back in her chair, she met the other woman’s 
puzzled look with one of kindly toleration mixed with 
contempt. 

“Are you so stupidly dense as you appear, Alice? Or 
are you wilfully blinding yourself?” 

“I am no more stupid than the rest of my family, 
I hope!” snapped Mrs. Stockley, with much meaning. 

2 55 


256 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Well, then/’ continued her sister, ignoring this im¬ 
probability, “you must realize that Barbara will most 
likely return—very changed. Indeed, from her one letter 
there seems no doubt about it. That was queer—very 
queer!” 

Mrs. Stockley impatiently hunted among bundles of 
colored silks. “Of course she will be changed. She is 
two years older and has suffered ghastly experiences. 
She was very ill at Singapore: you couldn’t expect long 
chatty letters!” 

She spoke with unusual asperity. Two years of her 
sister’s undiluted companionship had increased an inher¬ 
ent instinct toward contradiction, while developing a self¬ 
defensive alertness. Both were necessary in the radius 
of two sharp eyes ever quizzing through their lorgnette, 
two ears which seemingly reached all over the house, and 
a caustic tongue ready to reduce other people’s foibles or 
few ideas to shreds. Such gifts used at the expense of com¬ 
mon acquaintances are a different matter, of course. . . . 

Miss Davies, having renounced her worldly life for her 
sister’s sake, never allowed the fact to be forgotten. She 
rose now, and turned up the pink-shaded lamp standing 
near. 

“Martha trims lamps shockingly!” she complained. 
“They never give enough light, and usually smoke.” 

“None have smoked this winter, yet!” snapped 
Martha’s mistress, without reflection. 

“Your memory’s going, Alice! This one smoked last 
Sunday week. Well-managed lamps are painful enough 
to one accustomed to the comforts of town life, with¬ 
out-” 

“Well, Mary, if you want to return to your town life, 
do so! I have often begged you not to consider me.” 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


257 

This was true—since hearing of her daughter’s extra¬ 
ordinary resurrection. 

But Miss Davies was in no hurry to withdraw her 
feet from the comfortable fenders of Lake Cottage. She 
was established now in Darbury, with a little circle of 
choice friends among whom she queened it darkly as a 
“Woman who knew the World.” 

“I suppose Martha has too much to do,” she tactfully 
conceded. 

“After to-morrow, Bab will be here to help her as 
usual,” Mrs. Stockley replied with comfortable satisfac¬ 
tion. “She will attend to the lamps again.” 

“Ah!” Miss Davies returned to the promptings of 
conscience with renewed relish. “She may not be so 
willing to be an unpaid housemaid now! You are as 
blind as Hugh, Alice. I saw him this afternoon, quite 
excited over meeting her to-morrow. He wants to have 
the wedding after Christmas ... of course it was not 
my business to say anything!” 

Whether this self-discipline could have been main¬ 
tained had not other people been present, is open to 
question. . . . 

“You don’t understand Bab as well as Hugh and I do, 
you see,” returned her sister complacently. 

“No,” she agreed, “but I understand Man!” Her 
lips closed with a snap, to give effect to the world of 
meaning in her words. “Don’t you realize, Alice, that 
Barbara was attractive? And she has been flung, un¬ 
chaperoned, for two years, into the society of a man who 
—well—had extremely loose ideas, and Bohemian ways! 
—a man whose influence would be most questionable for 
any young girl.” 

Mrs. Stockley flushed. “Are you insinuating that Bab 


258 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


would be weak enough to allow him to influence her? 
After her careful upbringing, too? Why—looseness of 
any sort would be abhorrent to her! Her surroundings 
have always been strictly moral.” 

“I don’t insinuate anything; but I wouldn’t trust that 
man far, in such circumstances! We have yet to learn 
how he behaved.” 

“She did not allude to him in her letter.” 

“No. But—she did her utmost to get taken back to 
search for his body! Surely her chief desire should have 
been to hurry home to Hugh ?” 

Mrs. Stockley smiled impatiently. “You are making 
mountains from molehills, Mary! She did that purely 
from humanitarian motives; it was only right and 
natural. Hugh thought so. He liked Captain Croft.” 

“Hugh is too trustful: that’s why I am sorry for him. 
Frankly, Alice, I do not believe a man and woman could 
live in such isolation without coming to grief. I have 
seen too much of human nature-” 

“My dear Mary! what do you mean? You don’t-” 

Her sister held up a dignified hand to stop all inter¬ 
ruption. “You must face it, Alice! Everybody is talking 
and wondering. Of course, it depends entirely upon the 
man. I don’t imply that all men are beasts—as some 
women would who had seen as much of the world as I 
have. If he had a strong spiritual nature—a clergyman, 
perhaps. But that man!” She pursed her lips. 

Mrs. Stockley gazed at her, her own face paling, her 
finger twitching the forgotten stole. 

“ ‘Coming to grief!’ ” she repeated, horrified. “Do you 
dare suggest my daughter would so disgrace her name 
and family as to allow- My dear Mary! it is pre¬ 

posterous! I would disown such a child. But Barbara! 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


259 


Why, I would trust her alone with any man, for forty 
years! She wouldn’t dream of such things. Besides, 
Captain Croft was Mrs. Field’s cousin, of good family 
himself-” 

Martha hustled in at this moment with bedroom 
candles. She plumped them down upon the table, and 
her old face beamed at an excuse for garrulity over 
Barbara’s return. When, snubbed, she departed, Mrs. 
Stockley faced her sister, candle in hand, with an air of 
outraged dignity. 

“Mary,” she said, “your conversation to-night has 
shocked me inexpressibly! I insist on your never 
breathing a word of your suspicions—either to Hugh or 
Barbara. If she has any—painful memories—she will 
confide in me. Of course, I did not know Captain Croft 
well, nor like him; but—poor child! Her sufferings may 
have been worse than I ever imagined.” 

Miss Davies lit her candle, then threw the match into 
the fire. A little mysterious smile hovered over her 
face. 

“Of course I shall not say anything to Barbara. But 
I shall soon know, without being told! Her memories 
may not be painful. That type of man can become very 
attractive to young girls if he chooses. ... I should not 
be surprised if-” 

“I don’t wish to hear any more. You have a most 
suggestive mind, Mary, which is extremely unpleasant 
at times. Good night!” 

With unusual decision she opened the drawing-room 
door, and went to bed. But she lay long awake thinking 
over her sister’s remarks. One alone stood out clearly, 
gathering force with every minute: “Everybody is talk¬ 
ing and wondering.” 



26 o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Wondering—what? What vile insinuation lay here? 
And about her family! No surer way could have been 
found of dropping poison into Mrs. Stockley’s mind. . . . 

Darburv certainly was thrilled. It seethed with 
curiosity and the self-importance engendered by unex¬ 
pected publicity. During the war its sons and daughters, 
although playing their parts well, achieved nothing 
especially noteworthy to bring the little backwater into 
prominence; whereas the disappearance of Croft’s expe¬ 
dition caused it to leap at one bound into notoriety. 
Newspapers overflowed with the tragedy. Reporters, 
photographers, curious idlers, flocked to Darbury. 
Relatives of the ill-fated passengers were interviewed, 
photographs taken of their surroundings. . . . Little else 
was talked about at dinner-tables, over tea-cups or gar¬ 
den-walls, throughout the land. But gradually, when all 
search for remains proved fruitless, new topics of ab¬ 
sorbing interest arose, and the public forgot. 

Now, with dramatic suddenness, De Borceau’s news 
had flashed across the globe. The world remembered 
again, and gasped. This was more absorbing than the 
modern problem novel! In fact, it was one in real life. 
A man and a girl alone upon a desert island among canni¬ 
bals ! Who could say adventure had perished with the 
war? Here was food for romance—drama ! 

Everybody eagerly devoured all scraps of news; but 
the supply was scanty. After being brought to Singapore, 
the heroine remained there, ill, unable to be moved for a 
time. ... A certain reticence surrounded this illness, 
prostration being given as the natural cause. No trace 
of a white man’s body was found by the expedition sent, 
post-haste, to search the island. Only the charred re¬ 
mains of a hut, and a few dead natives, were discovered 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


261 


in the north. In the south, a small tribe of furious, armed 
savages offered a wildly hostile reception, making ap¬ 
proach difficult, refusing any information other than a 
poisoned arrow. . . . Babooma had presumably recov¬ 
ered and wreaked his vengeance upon the body of his late 
antagonist. . . . 

When well enough, the girl had implored frantically, as 
one distraught, for facilities to return, herself, to search. 
This awakened a new interest, adding piquancy to the 
situation. But such quixotic madness could not be 
indulged by level-headed authorities. What could a girl 
accomplish where hosts of men had failed? No! The 
island had been thoroughly explored. The hostile fac¬ 
tion of the natives was in possession; her return would 
be mere suicide, or worse. She was sent to England as 
soon as practicable. 

But the De Borceau brothers, ever thirsting for adven¬ 
ture, understanding perhaps more of her sufferings and 
the true facts than they chose to publish, carried out to 
the end their oath to Croft. Only on the boat did they 
bid her farewell—then they returned to their charts and 
their seaplane. Nothing save death, so they vowed to 
her, in their exuberant French fashion, should deter them 
from learning final news of the man whose personality 
had won their generous admiration. . . . 

The key to more intimate, romantic drama was not 
forthcoming. Speculation flourished. What would be 
likely to happen in such circumstances? Would pro¬ 
pinquity bring love in its train? And, if so-? This 

entailed endless discussion, heated arguments. What 
would be right, and wha£ wrong? Which would need 

most courage: to resist or-? There were women who 

thought the reverse. 



262 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


According to their own standpoint, people judged. The 
loose and immoral did not need to think; for them the 
situation held no problem—the result was obvious. To 
the strictly nurtured, narrow in their own righteousness, 
it presented little difficulty. The straight line, with 
Virtue on one side and Vice on the other, runs through 
every predicament and is clearly seen, in the limited scope 
of their imagination. . . . But, thank God! there are 
some to whom a wideness of vision is vouchsafed. They 
could find much for debate upon all points in this 
question. 

The fact of the girl being already engaged shed a 
further glamour of the dramatic over the adventure, 
making the uncertainty all the greater. Perhaps no 
problem had arisen after all. . . . But if it had? Did 
the two themselves have clear convictions on either side; 
and, above all, courage to be true to them? 

This was the vital point all longed to know. The pair 
became invested with romance. . . . Women laid their 
heads together and wondered. . . . Dark surmises were 
murmured concerning that illness at Singapore. . . . 
Sentimental girls forgot their matinee or cinema idols and 
cut Croft’s photograph out of newspapers, half-wishing 
they themselves had been wrecked with him. . . . Zeal¬ 
ous Christians such as Mr. Horne talked about the mercy 
of God, and the wonderful way in which things hap¬ 
pened. Here was an unknown family of His children 
living in darkness, until two enlightened beings—one a 
clergyman’s daughter with Sunday-school experience— 
were sent to give them The Word. . . . 

The civilized public who never went further than 
Brighton, choked with opinions upon life on a desert 
island. Everybody had ideas. Well-fed fathers stood 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


263 


before their fires, in their comfortable rooms, and held 
their families entranced with their own imaginary exploits 
in such circumstances. What huts they would have built, 
by gad! What boats! How they would have made 
“those damned savages” sit up! Not use firearms? 
Quixotic foolery! The blacks should soon have learned 
their places, damn it all!—or else been exterminated like 
vermin! . . . Very modern girls with much leg, no 
ankles, and yellow fingers—bad imitations of the men 
they professed to despise—seething with their own froth 
of intelligence, pronounced strong views upon all that was 
known of Barbara’s actions. Their theories were invul¬ 
nerable. Had they been there, “no nonsense” would have 
been stood from man, white or black. Their only problem 
would have been what they desired or did not desire. . . . 

And, as the world in general talked, guessed, criticized, 
so did Darbury in particular. Miss Davies, being in in¬ 
timate touch with the chief actors, was in her glory. To 
her, alone of those most nearly concerned, did outsiders 
dare to breathe their views upon the most delectable 
problem of all. In the presence of the Rochdales and 
Mrs. Stockley nobody had the courage to approach the 
topic holding so much spice. 

Kindly, unsuspicious, happy in anticipation, the 
Rochdale home was full of simple rejoicing. It was left 
to Miss Davies to cast the seeds of doubt into her sister’s 
unimaginative, self-centered mind. . . . 

Meanwhile, through the darkness of winter nights and 
drabness of monotonous days, the ship plowed her way 
to England which bore one from the closed gates of an 
“earthly paradise,” with agonized eyes still dazzled by 
the lights she had left there, to trim the little lamps of her 
Darbury home. 


264 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


II 

The boat-train was late. 

Little groups of people, wrapped in heavy coats and 
furs, stood about the platform at Charing Cross chatting 
together; or promenaded slowly, eying their fellows with 
furtive interest, or absorbed in their own reflections. 

The lonely young man with the shade over one eye 
became convinced that both the station-clock and his 
wrist-watch had stopped; yet the watch appeared to be 
ticking when, every few moments, he examined it. He 
sighed, turned on his heel, and for the twentieth time 
started to walk the length of the platform and back. 
Impatience was a novelty, also the state of excitement in 
which he found himself: he hardly knew how to cope with 
such sensations. . . . 

All the roar of the huge terminus surrounded him. 
An engine blew off steam sharply; to the accompaniment 
of whistles, shouts, waving of hands, a lengthy train 
glided slowly out, with much self-importance, from a de¬ 
parture platform into the murky darkness beyond. . . . 

Reaching the end of his self-appointed task, he turned 
and slowly retraced his steps. 

Two years in his usual comfortable groove had changed 
Hugh very little. He managed his father’s property, 
hunted, shot, played games, as of yore. If the tragic loss 
of Barbara had taken the keen edge from his enjoyment 
of life, making him a little older and graver, it had not 
destroyed his interests in the wholesome occupations which 
came his way. After the first shock had abated, he found 
himself a forlorn hero among his many friends, who took 
him to their hearts and filled his days so that brooding 
became impossible. Perhaps more than mere sympathy 
lurked within the minds of mothers with marriageable 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


265 


daughters; but that suspicion never penetrated his brain. 
The girl who was part of his very life had gone: to 
none other did he give a moment’s thought. 

And now this twentieth-century miracle had happened! 
After what seemed a dull dream he awoke just where he 
was, when, so to speak, he fell asleep. His feelings were 
absolutely unchanged, except, perhaps, that they were 
intensified by loss. The possibility of any alteration in 
their relationship never even occurred to him. As has 
been mentioned before, he was not blessed—or cursed— 
with imagination. . . . 

When he had nearly reached the barrier, a sudden 
tension became apparent everywhere: conversations 
ceased, heads all turned one way, a flutter of expectancy 
passed over the scattered groups. . . . 

Hugh turned quickly. The huge engine, approaching, 
glided slowly alongside the platform, followed by the train 
which brought far travelers home again from distant 
lands. . . . 

Within a few minutes all was bustle and hurry. The 
platform swarmed with excited passengers, harassed 
porters, barrows, luggage. . . . 

He searched hither and thither for the figure he sought, 
anxiety slowly rising within him. As the crowd thinned, 
he took up his position just inside the barrier, where she 
was bound to come. Peering through the murky light, 
he hastily scanned each face that passed, without success. 
When at last but a few stragglers remained, he made his 
way farther down the platform a dull feeling of disap¬ 
pointment adding to his anxiety. 

Casually his glance traveled over a thin figure in a dark 
coat and hat, seated upon a bench, a kindly, gray-haired 
porter standing near, suit-case in hand. ... As he passed 


266 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


by, a voice he had once thought never to hear again 
caused him to turn sharply, with a leap of the heart. 

“I shall be better in a minute. . . . Thank you, 
porter. . . .” 

“Bab!” With probably the quickest movement of his 
life, Hugh reached the seat and seized the girl’s trem¬ 
bling hands in his own. . . . Then all other words of 
greeting faded upon his lips: he was conscious of a sense 
of shock, a nameless apprehension. The general features 
of the face quickly raised were those he knew; but that 
was all. This woman with the heavy, haunted-looking 
eyes, the strained set lips, the curious rigidity of expres¬ 
sion, bore no resemblance to the sweet-faced, impulsive 
girl who had clung round his neck at parting, in the cabin 
of the aeroplane. He felt checked, curiously embarrassed, 
as if with a stranger. Still clasping her hands, he gazed 
at her silently, noting with alarm the ashen hue spreading 
even to her lips. 

Several times she essayed to speak, and failed. The 
porter, scenting romance, discreetly moved a few steps 
away. ... At last Hugh heard his name uttered, again 
and again, in a voice so charged with misery that his 
apprehensions deepened, and a sudden mistiness enveloped 
the surrounding scene. For she was clinging to his hands 
like one in deep torment who, for the first time amid a 
storm of suffering, finds the anchor of an old friend. . . . 
And yet he received the impression of fear in her manner; 
she seemed loath to meet his gaze, unable to talk to him. 
. . . He was frankly puzzled; but an Englishman, with 
his horror of scenes, can be trusted to bridge over any 
threatening chasms. 

Sending the porter for a taxi, he sat down by her side, 
still holding her hands, and took refuge in the prosaic. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 267 

“Come and have some tea—or brandy—or something, 
Bab,” he suggested. “There’s just time.” 

She shook her head. 

“But—you—you—dash it all! You don’t look fit to 
travel. What is It, dear-?” 

“I—shall be all right,” she breathed. “We had a bad 
crossing. I—caught cold. That’s all, Hugh.” 

He watched her with puckered brow. “What made 
you leave the boat at Marseilles and come overland?” 

“I hated it!” she cried huskily, freeing her hands. 
“It was all—unbearable—day after day—the monotony, 
the people—oh! I hated it all!” Her eyes roved wildly 
over the platform, then she abruptly turned toward him. 
“I want Mrs. Field. Is she in London, or at Darbury?” 

“Neither. She’s in Russia.” 

The girl’s hands twined convulsively together, and she 
said no more. It was a relief to both when the porter 
appeared to lead them to the waiting taxi. By this 
sudden act of traveling overland, she had successfully 
thwarted publicity. No curiosity was evinced in her 
arrival. She sank back in a corner, with throbbing head, 
bewildered by the noise around. It all seemed part of 
the nightmare which had been going on for so long, in 
which various parts of her anatomy moved, spoke, ate 
and slept, while she herself was numbed or dead. The 
movements around appeared as unreal and detached as 
the life of a gay city to one lying, blind and pain-stricken, 
in a darkened room. 

Hugh turned to put his arms about her, as they drove 
away—but again something intangible checked him; in¬ 
stead, he took her hand once more, almost shyly, and 
leaned toward her. “Bab,” he asked diffidently, “won’t 
you—aren’t you going to kiss me? After all this time?” 


268 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


She drew away quickly, sharply. For a moment she 
laid her hand upon the door, with the mad instinct to 
escape which some trapped animal might feel on its way 
to the zoo, its heart ever away in the wilds with its lost 
mate. . . . Then, drawing a long quivering breath, she 
leaned back and looked up at him. In the light from 
passing vehicles, she saw the hurt wonder on his face, the 
affection in the one brown eye close to her, the grim 
shade. . . . 

All at once the cold rigidity encompassing her heart 
relaxed. With trembling lips, and eyes swimming in 
sudden tears, she laid her free hand on his. 

“Hughie!” she muttered brokenly, “you must bear with 
me. So much has happened. I have to tell you. . . . I— 

I’m not—I don’t-” The words quavered away into 

silence. How was it possible, at this first moment of 
meeting, to blurt out the bald statements which would 
shatter his pathetic happiness and trust? She could not 
bear, yet, to allude to what had become a sacred memory 
full of poignant, exquisite pain. “I can’t tell you every¬ 
thing—here,” she continued. “Oh! I can’t speak of it all 
—yet, Hugh! Don’t ask me. It—it is so—unbearable 
-” Again her voice died away. 

Hugh pressed the hands in his, and laid them against 
his cheek. 

“Darling old girl! Has it been as bad as all that ?” 

He had, she knew, entirely misunderstood; but she 
made no comment. Explanations were impossible, just 
then. This meeting, fraught with such irony and tragedy, 
had bewildered her. Hugh’s presence, with its present 
strangeness and odd sense of familiarity, brought with it 
a sense of shock, reducing her preconceived ideas of 
it to chaos. 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


269 


Save for a few inquiries concerning her mother and 
his people, both were silent during most of the drive. 
Hugh was trying, in his groping way, to solve the riddle 
of this drastic change in the girl. Her experiences among 
savages, her illness, and two years’ separation, would 
doubtless make things seem strange between them at first, 
he reflected sensibly. With patience on his part, all 
would soon right itself. Nevertheless, he was conscious 
of disappointment. He would have asked more, but she 
had shut the door upon all except surface talk. 

When they reached Waterloo, she nerved herself to put 
the question she scarcely dared to frame—that which was 
her only interest in life at present. 

4 ‘Has any news reached England—yet—from De 
Borceau ?” 

Hugh looked grave and shook his head. 

“Of—Croft, you mean? No. Poor fellow! ... I 
suppose—I say—Bab-?” 

“Yes?” 

“I suppose—I’ve sometimes wondered—was Croft 
quite—decent to you, all the time?” 

A harsh caricature of a laugh jarred on his ears. 

“Yes. Oh! Quite—decent!” 

Hugh knitted his brow at her tone. 

“You are sure? He—looked after you, I mean, and 
did all he could?” 

“Oh, yes, yes! He—did all he possibly could.” 

“It was a beastly position for you both. Especially as 
you didn’t like him-” 

“Here’s the station!” she exclaimed, with a quick 
breath of relief. The taxi drew up at the pavement, and 
a porter opened the door. . . . 

The train was rather full; but the presence of others in 




270 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


their carriage was a boon to Barbara. Hugh had sunk so 
far into the background that, in her recent anguish, the 
consideration of their position had held no place. Robbed 
with such cruel suddenness of both Alan and her future 
motherhood, there had been no room, in the bitterness of 
her heart, for thoughts of the empty years ahead. Every 
throb of the engines bringing her away increased the 
passionate craving to return—to search every nook and 
corner of the island for remains of the man who meant 
more than life to her; then to lie down beside them and 
die, herself. 

But fate destined otherwise. With increased sense of 
desolation and hopelessness, she foresaw the trails loom¬ 
ing in front of her—the misery she must cause, the lack 
of understanding she must face alone. Only the desire 
to reach Mrs. Field had reconciled her to this return; 
now that was crushed. . . . Bewildered with conflicting 
emotions, with burning throat and aching head, she 
crouched, shivering, in a corner of the carriage while 
Hugh wrapped his traveling-rug round her knees. 

“You have caught a chill,” he said in his old kindly, 
practical way. “I suppose you got used to a warm 
climate ?” 

“Yes.” She met his concerned look full of affection, 
and something seemed to stab her heart. “You were 
kind to come to meet me, Hughie,” she faltered. 

“Kind? My dearest Bab! I—after two years—dash 
it all!” He leaned forward, ostensibly to close the 
window. “You—don’t seem to realize what all this 

means to me—I’m rotten at expressing things, but-” 

His voice grew husky; as he dashed up the window he 
blinked rather impatiently, then sat back and resolutely 
plunged into commonplaces. 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


271 


The train rushed through the wintry darkness. An 
elderly clergyman dozed in one corner of the compart¬ 
ment; two girls carried on a low-voiced conversation, 
interspersed with bursts of laughter, over the pages of 
their magazines. Hugh discoursed upon all the little 
mundane happenings in Darbury during her absence, and 
she was grateful to him. She learned that Major Ran¬ 
dall and Daisy French, braving criticism and ostracism, 
had been married at a Registry Office soon after her own 
departure; that Sybil Burford’s wedding with Tony Field 
had taken place with much fashionable eclat, about fifteen 
months before. Here Hugh flushed, stammered a little, 
then relapsed into silence, and she wondered why. Fif¬ 
teen months ago . . . she puckered her brow in feeble 
reckoning: that would be about the time- An intol¬ 

erable, almost physical pain caused her to close her eyes 
as the vivid picture of another marriage, away on a 
wild hilltop, with streams of golden sunshine for its only 
eclat , rose before them. . . . 

Thus, amid prosaic surroundings, hidden under un¬ 
emotional exteriors, life’s tragedies and comedies work 
out their scenes. The two girls, absorbed now in their 
magazine stories, were oblivious to the living drama, full 
of tragedy and bitter irony, being enacted but a few 
feet away. Whenever Barbara looked at Hugh, the ironic 
misery of this false situation was increased. To him, at 
present, things seemed only vaguely unsatisfactory. This 
he had accounted for in the obvious way; therefore, 
worrying was futile. .... 

“I shall soon know without being told,” Miss Davies 
had said. And she did. By the time she had extricated 
her niece from the combined watery tendrils of Mrs. 
Stockley and Martha, and kissed her cold white face, she 



272 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


knew! The girl greeted them all with a certain quiet 
warmth, lacking both effusion and emotion, which bore 
as little resemblance to her old impulsive ways as the 
forced smile and sunken eyes to a face distinguished by 
its serenity. Nobody returning to a longed-for home 
and fiance would look upon them with those eyes of 
haunted hopelessness! No illness would leave those rigid 
lines of pain around a mouth ever easily wreathed in 
smiles! . . . “Something has happened/’ the woman of 
the world said to herself, watching in silence. What it 
might be, she was left to conjecture. 

Mrs. Stockley, after the poison dropped into her mind 
the night before, regarded her daughter’s island life as 
some terrible blot staining the clean pages of her exist¬ 
ence, which must not be lightly touched upon. She felt 
self-conscious upon the subject, shocked and apprehen¬ 
sive over the girl’s appearance. As usual, she took refuge 
in helpless tears. It was Martha, urged by Hugh, who, 
noticing the chattering teeth and clammy hands, sug¬ 
gested hot soup and bed at once. 

“With a ’ot bottle,” she added. 

A contraction caught Barbara’s throat, preventing 
speech. Everything was so familiar, so home-like; and 
yet—so intolerable! She allowed herself to be led into 
the well-known dining-room. Somebody removed her 
coat, and somebody her hat; then Hugh’s voice uttered 
an exclamation. 

“You’ve bobbed your hair, Bab! Why ?” 

Kneeling unsteadily before the fire, with hands 
stretched to the cheerful blaze, she was struck by the 
strangeness of this question coming from him—the in¬ 
direct cause two years before. 

“It—was—better short,” she replied shakily. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


273 


“I hope it will soon grow again now,” said her mother 
anxiously. “I dislike the craze for ‘bobbed’ hair; it’s 
unfeminine.” 

The meshes of the net which had loomed near with the 
advent of the De Borceaus, appeared to the girl’s dis¬ 
traught mind to be closing steadily round her. Like one 
struggling in vain to elude them, she staggered to her 
feet. 

“Mother—let me go to bed! I feel too—ill-” 

It was Hugh who caught her, as she stumbled toward 
the door. With Martha, he half-carried her up the stairs 
to her old room. . . . 

And all through the night, as she tossed about, with 
wide feverish eyes staring at Martha fussing near at 
hand; where—hundreds of years ago, it seemed, she had 
blown out the candle upon her old home-life—vision after 
vision rose, full of exquisite torture, to her mind. ... A 
night of delirious terror in a little, vault-like hut. ... A 
fearful vigil seated upon upturned suit-cases, waiting in 
the dark for the natives’ attack. ... A pair of scissors 
and a shock of dark hair, from under which dear gray 
eyes laughed up into her face. . . . An early dawn, with 
a little tin key-ring. . . . Golden hopes of motherhood, 
dashed almost as soon as awakened. . . . Like a relent¬ 
less panorama, detail after detail came vividly to life 
again, with, ever present, the buoyancy of a man’s strong 
personality carrying all before it. . . . She pressed her 
lips passionately to that little circlet of tin, with a bitter¬ 
ness of grief too deep for the relief of tears. . . . 

Down-stairs, Mrs. Stockley and her sister sat long into 
the night, talking, surmising, arguing. Ever and anon, 
the former damped the atmosphere with her tears. 

“She is so changed—so changed!” she repeated at in- 


274 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


tervals. “If people are already talking, I don’t know 
what they will say when they see her!” 

“She is sure to tell you, soon, all that happened,” 
consoled her sister. “Then we can contradict any wrong 
suspicions.” 

“I am sure she has been ill-treated,” moaned the other; 
“or why should she look so ill and miserable, now she 
has come home ? I don’t believe she was even glad to see 
me—her own mother! It seems so ungrateful. But 
Bab always was thoughtless and inconsiderate over my 
feelings.” 

“Why not ask her for the truth, to-morrow?” sug¬ 
gested Miss Davies, her curiosity difficult to curb. “Or 
shall I ? I am more used to girls in trouble-” 

“No, Mary!” said Mrs. Stockley, with quick anger at 
any interference. “I will not have you insinuate that 
she is one of—of your 'fallen girls/ like this! If she has 
suffered anything at—that man’s hands, she will tell me, 
herself. I couldn’t speak of it now. Besides, I wouldn’t 
dream of forcing her confidence! After all, it may be 
only the result of her illness.” 

Miss Davies glanced at her, rather sharply. 

“What was really the matter at Singapore, do you 
suppose?” she asked. 

“Prostration. And shock. Don’t you remember? v 
Very natural, I am sure, after such terrible times.” 

Miss Davies drew in her lips, in her usual way when 
considering discretion the better part of valor, and made 
no reply. 

Ill 

Mr. Brent-Hewson’s diet, when his wife was at 
home, consisted chiefly of bread-pudding. She prided 
herself upon her capability as a housekeeper who wasted 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


275 


nothing. Beyond frequent applications of this particu¬ 
larly unsavory dish—in which all stale fragments of 
cake were likewise concealed—it was difficult to find 
any other outward and visible sign of her inward, theo¬ 
retic grace. When she departed, they vanished, too; but 
the bills still flowed on at the same pace. Mr. Brent- 
Hewson once dreamed a beautiful dream in which an 
angel came and said to him: “Is it not more blessed to 
prevent than to cure, O Man?” Being inspired by the 
epithet, he repeated the dream to his wife, with the valiant 
suggestion of reducing the supply of bread. She lowered 
her newspaper, and fixed her pale eyes upon him, saying 
nothing. . . . Mr. Brent-Hewson shuffled his feet un¬ 
easily ; then spilt his coffee over a clean breakfast-cloth, 
and alluded to the mild weather, wondering if there 
would be snow. Some dreams are best unrepeated. Life 
is a ceaseless education. . . . He therefore received 
invitations to dinner at hospitable places, like Darbury 
House, with genuine delight. 

Mrs. Rochdale gave an annual local dinner-party be¬ 
fore Christmas every year, over which she presided like a 
good-natured hen—clucking, with her Buff Orpington 
smile, upon the chickens pecking at the good things 
provided for them. Everybody who was anybody in 
the neighborhood received an invitation, so that the 
parties bore a singular similarity. 

Fresh interest was aroused this year, owing to the 
expected presence of Barbara. So far, she had been 
seen by few. For a week a severe chill had kept her in 
bed, invisible to the curious eyes of those who buzzed 
around Lake Cottage. The more persevering, after her 
arrival down-stairs, spread interesting reports of the ex¬ 
traordinary change wrought in her looks and behavior. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


276 

Miss Horne was one of these. Being the vicar’s sister, 
it was obviously her duty to continue calling until the 
“wandering sheep” (her brother’s happy expression) 
could be seen. Miss Horne had been reading up the 
Pacific Islands with terrific zeal. Robert Louis Steven¬ 
son, encyclopedias, books upon natives and their ways 
—all had been devoured indiscriminately. She had 
strings of knowledge at her finger-ends concerning angli¬ 
cized blacks and tropical vegetation. That the victim 
to be crushed by this intelligence had seen and known a 
tribe and a land in their prehistoric state, untamed by 
the hand of civilization, was overlooked. . . . She came 
away, uncomfortably crestfallen. 

“Most extraordinary!” she confided to Mrs. Brent- 
Hewson, over their tea-cups. “It was like talking to an 
utter stranger! You would think she would enjoy 
recounting her experiences, and discussing the island 
with somebody who understands that locality. But no! 
She was vague and reticent to the point of rudeness!” 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson agreed. She, also, had penetrated, 
with her dreadnought insistence, the girl’s seclusion— 
putting her through a severe cold-eyed catechism con¬ 
cerning the probable commercial value of foodstuffs 
which the island might produce, also copra, cotton, etc., 
and the capacity of the natives for work and money¬ 
making. That money was unknown to them she refused 
to believe, it being the value by which she rated all 
things and people. She, also, had found it necessary to 
wrench out the information she desired (for a forthcom¬ 
ing lecture upon “Products”), much as a dentist wrenches 
out teeth. 

“I wonder why it is?” little Mr. Brent-Hewson re¬ 
marked mildly. He had always liked Barbara; she did 
not make him feel small. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


277 


“Man!” his wife replied, with no hesitation, but with 
inexpressible disdain (she had never forgotten a certain 
fete). “Some girls are like that—weak fools—let any 
man influence them!” 

Her husband sighed, and liked Barbara all the more. 
A girl who could be influenced by a mere man seemed 
something rare and precious. 

“Yes,” agreed Miss Horne, smiling mysteriously. “I 
fear there is something behind it all! Miss Davies thinks 
so ; and she ought to know.” 

“Ah, well! we shall see. Have some more tea? 
James! Pass Miss Horne’s cup, please.” 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson never allowed herself to be drawn 
into discussions, or to give opinions, too soon. It was 
more dignified to maintain an aloof silence until facts 
were known or arguments decided. Then was the time 
to drop, casually, a few words to prove that her senti¬ 
ments had been on the right side throughout. She was 
one of those who always read criticisms by eminent critics 
of plays and books, in order to know what line to take 
in conversation upon such things. “To err is human,” 
which was perhaps why she endeavored to render her¬ 
self immune from such a charge. 

As James hastened from his seat to obey, Miss Davies’ 
figure passed the window, on its way to the front door. 
Presently she entered, obviously seething under some 
tremendous agitation. 

“Have you heard ?” she asked, not waiting for 
preliminaries. 

“What?” cried Miss Horne. 

“The rumor that Sybil is leaving Tony Field is correct! 
Everybody in the village is talking! But I thought you 
might not have heard yet, up here.” 


278 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Oh, I always knew the rumor had some truth in it,” 
Mrs. Brent-Hewson replied, with irritating superiority. 

“Do you know why ?” asked Miss Horne, putting 
down her cup lest she should spill her tea in her present 
state. 

Miss Davies beamed. She enjoyed nothing better than 
a situation such as this, where she held the trump cards. 

“Yes, I do,” she said, pausing to take a hot tea-cake 
with exasperating slowness. 

“What ?” urged the vicar’s sister impatiently. 

“Divorce!” 

After which cryptic reply she stuffed a piece of cake 
into her mouth, preventing further information while 
producing the effect of a good “curtain” in a serial. 

“Divorce!” echoed Mr. Brent-Hewson, startled. 

“Whose?” cried Miss Horne. 

“Somebody named Scott—a major in Tony’s regiment. 
He is going to divorce his wife, and Tony is the co¬ 
respondent ! Apparently it’s an old affair; for they 
stayed at the Savoy together, two years ago. Tony 
denies it; but their names are in the hotel register. Nat¬ 
urally, Sybil is leaving him.” 

“Who would have dreamed of such a thing?” cried 
Miss Horne. “He seemed such an exemplary young 
man.” 

“Ah!” remarked Miss Davies, picking up her cup. 
“You never know, with men! They are experts at 
deception.” 

“Perhaps Mrs. Field will return now, and take care 
of her own affairs instead of messing about among 
foreigners,” observed Mrs. Brent-Hewson, who, only 
able to think personally, not often parochially, herself, 
entirely failed to comprehend those who thought nation- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


279 


ally. Not for the world would she have admitted jealousy 
of a woman whose work and personality were greater 
than her own. 

“Barbara has had a letter from her. She is returning 
very soon,” replied Miss Davies. 

“Did she say anything about Tony?” asked Miss Horne. 

Miss Davies had, reluctantly, to confess ignorance upon 
this point. 

“Barbara is so changed !”* she sighed. “IBs quite 
difficult to make her talk at all. There’s something on 

her mind. Ah, well! it will come out- I met Miss 

Brown going to see her, as I came here.” 

Miss Brown had become, by now, the recognized local 
poet laureate. Her “Dewdrops” watered the earth. 
Whatever happened in Darbury inspired a lyric or sonnet 
of some kind from her increasingly fluent pen. She was 
wont to say that “soul atmosphere insists upon expres¬ 
sion.” As, during one period of her life, her poems 
ehiefly concerned hopeless love, her biographer might 
therefore conclude that an “atmosphere” of unrequited 
passion had warped her sensitive soul during those 
gloomy years. She was known to have had what might 
be termed a negative proposal, at that time. A curate, 
with no chest to speak of but a poetic soul, had come to 
do locum work during Mr. Horne’s summer holiday. 
Naturally, he and the poetess gravitated toward each 
other. One day on the lake, overcome by the setting 
sun and a distant gramophone, he had laid down the 
book of Browning’s poems from which he had been 
reading and impulsively seized her hand. In tones of 
deep emotion he murmured broken wishes that they could 
marry. But, he had continued, if he were in a position 
to marry, there was another woman to whom he ought to 


28 o 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


give the first refusal ... he thought it only fair to 
tell Miss Brown this. . . . 

Whether “this” caused the phase of love poems, was 
uncertain. She confided the episode to her bosom 
friends, with some pride; therefore it was soon known 
all over Darbury. To feel herself second upon a poetic 
curate’s marriage catalogue was at least “half a loaf 
better than no bread”! 

She fluttered in to Barbara, this afternoon, with a small 
volume resembling a prayer-book, bound in purple suede 
with black strappings, in her pocket. When she left, 
after an unsatisfactory half-hour of strained conversa¬ 
tion, she thrust it into the girl’s hands. 

“It is the memorial poem I wrote for the Lucky-Bag 
after—when—we were mourning for you, you know!” 
she flustered nervously. “I thought you might like 
this bound copy.” . . . And she hurried away. 

Barbara sat and read the jingling verses of mournful 
eulogy upon herself and her companions—never so high 
in popularity as when considered dead! Croft particu¬ 
larly was invested with immortal, Galahad qualities quite 
unfamiliar to the girl who had loved him. Crude though 
it all was, one verse arrested her wandering attention, 
and she read it again: 

Why are we given our friendships, and all our happiest 
hours ? 

To pass and die forgotten, like leaves in th’ wild autumn 
bow’rs? 

Not so! They are lamps on time’s pathway, shining 
ever; the dimness is ours. 

Closing the book, she gazed out upon the darkening 
wintry garden, the words ringing with little comfort in 
her head, conscious of the truth hidden somewhere 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


281 

therein, could she ever reach it. It is easier to write of 
life than to live. Distant heights look so simple to climb. 

To the girl, weak in health and tortured in mind, every¬ 
body and everything seemed unbearable. Perceiving the 
suspicious curiosity around her, she instinctively cloaked 
herself with reserve, throwing no intimate sidelights 
upon the vital point causing so much conjecture. News 
from De Borceau was all she craved, and she felt fresh 
anxiety concerning the lack of it. Had Mrs. Stockley’s 
weak mind not been poisoned, making natural talk upon 
the island life impossible to her, things might have been 
vastly different for all. As it was, the topic became 
increasingly difficult of approach; until it assumed the 
character of something mysteriously tabu. Only the 
wreck and possible fate of Aunt Dolly were discussed. 
Croft’s name was never even mentioned between them. 

Urgent business on Mr. Rochdale’s Devonshire prop¬ 
erty summoned Hugh thither before Barbara came down¬ 
stairs. Still, therefore, the full explanation she intended 
to give him hung heavy on her mind, assuming increasing 
proportions the more she pondered over it. His horizon 
had been so contentedly bounded by conventional, ortho¬ 
dox views, that it might be difficult to make him under¬ 
stand the true case. She shrank from hurting him, from 
destroying his faith, as she knew she must do. 

Mrs. Field’s letter, full of the large-hearted, far-seeing 
sympathy so vital a part of her nature, brought a grain 
of comfort. There was only the briefest mention of the 
new trouble shadowing her own heart. Full of genuine 
grief and affection for her cousin, which she took for 
granted was shared now by the girl, there was no discreet 
avoidance of the matter. Being his nearest relative, she 
was kept informed of all proceedings concerning the 


282 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


recovery of his body: the lack of information from the 
De Borceaus, with their possible fate, was, she said, 
causing renewed anxiety. She urged Barbara to use the 
“House on the Moor” and its library, whenever she 
wished, as usual. 

Mrs. Stockley never encouraged—or believed in— 
invalidism other than her own. Once down-stairs, her 
daughter was expected to renew her old household duties 
and seek diligently to recover parochial ones. That she 
showed no inclination for either increased the sense of 
strain between them. Her shrinking from company 
would give rise, her mother dreaded, to further “talk.” 
It was, therefore, strongly condemned. She found it 
impossible, as things were, to escape the ordeal of Mrs. 
Rochdale’s dinner-party without hurting the kind old 
couple by actual rudeness. Having decided that Hugh 
must be told the truth before any one else, she was 
obliged, though shrinking in every fiber of her being, to 
dress in one of her old evening frocks and be fetched in 
the Rochdales’ big car. . . . This had been one of her 
few treats in past years. . . . As she listlessly finished 
her toilet, the poignant pain of it all struck her afresh. 
. . . The reflection of shadowy, sunken eyes and 
aureole of dark hair mocked at her, in the large drawing¬ 
room mirrors. . . . The unconscious irony of the con¬ 
versation, the kindliness of Hugh’s parents and their 
delight over her, his own affection, were all unbearable 
torture. . . . 

He had only returned that day, and she spoke to him 
in desperation, as they went in to dinner together. 
“Hugh!” she whispered, “I must see you alone, to tell 
you-” 

“I know!” he broke in eagerly. “I’m dying to hear 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


283 


everything! It was a beastly nuisance having to go 
away just then; but it couldn’t be helped. Afraid we 
shan’t get a chance to-night, though.” 

“To-morrow, then? Hugh, I must see you alone 
to-morrow!” There was a passionate urgency in her 
voice, a tragic pleading in her eyes—both signs which he 
entirely misunderstood. A flush overspread his face, and 
he pressed her bare arm to his side. 

“Bab, darling!” he whispered, “don’t you think I’m 
just longing to be alone with you, too? I—I counted 
the hours until I got back, to-day!” 

Barbara sat down at the table, her heart like lead. She 
felt like a murderer who, about to drop poison into the 
cup of a trusting friend, talks and smiles upon him the 
while. 

Mr. Horne’s enthusiasm over the missionary results of 
this providential visit to “children of darkness” (having 
a double meaning, this phrase was considered witty in 
Darbury), broke loose almost in the same breath wherein 
he concluded grace. He was not among those whose 
importunity had been crowned with success where seeing 
the “wandering sheep” was concerned. 

“I am so deeply interested in your work among the 
natives,” he began, his clear clerical tones arresting 
everybody’s attention. “I gathered from the papers that 
you obtained a wonderful influence over them?” 

“Weren’t they awful creatures?” put in Hugh, with a 
grimace. “I wonder you weren’t scared stiff, Bab!” 

“I was at first,” she owned. “But I grew very fond 
of them.” 

“Capital!” beamed the vicar. “Our brothers, in spite 
of difference in color. Doubtless they responded to 
?/our affectionate overtures, poor souls?” 


284 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


A vision of Alan’s affectionate overtures with electri¬ 
fied wire, flashing eyes, and fearful rhetoric, until his 
brothers became responsive, brought the shadow of a 
smile into her white face, which old Mr. Rochdale saw 
and answered. 

“I imagine Croft got ’em under more by bullying than 
affection; didn’t he?” he laughed. “That wireless stunt 
was a brainy notion! I suppose he had to whip up the 
lazy beggars pretty hard afterward, to make ’em work?” 

“No,” she replied, aware of many eyes upon her face 
at this open allusion. “They loved him and obeyed him 
because”—her voice faltered—“because he had the per¬ 
sonality to command obedience. He inspired them to 
work for their own good. They learned cleanliness; and 
we taught them to talk a little English-” 

“Capital! capital!” The vicar beamed again at Ter, 
through his pince-nez. “How did they receive the 
Word?” 

“Wonderfully quickly,” she answered, misunderstand¬ 
ing. “Some of them could talk quite fluently in a very 
short time-’’ 

“But the Word? How did they receive the Gospel?” 

“Oh! We did not attempt to disturb their own 
religion.” 

The vicar gazed at her, aghast, as did most of those 

present. “You mean-” he began, “you can’t mean 

that you neglected the first opportunity of giving them 
the Truth?” 

“Yes,” she said calmly, “if you look upon it in that 
light. We thought it unwise, for many reasons. For 
one thing, we had to play upon their superstitions to 
insure our own safety and obtain any influence at all. 
It needed great wariness.” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


285 


“But surely/’ he remonstrated pedantically, “at the 
risk of one’s life one should carry on the Gospel? Mis¬ 
sionaries have to risk-” 

“We were not missionaries!” she reminded him 
sharply. She looked impatiently at his self-complacent, 
horrified face and short-sighted eyes. “We tried to en¬ 
courage them in cleanliness, gentleness, and considera¬ 
tion. Isn’t that all part of the Gospel’s real meaning? 
To have stuffed entirely new doctrines down their throats 
would have been ridiculous!” 

Quick startled glances were directed upon her from 
all directions; the “Negatives” present flushed uncom¬ 
fortably ; Mrs. Stockley tried, ineffectually, to fix her 
with a stony eye; and Miss Horne came gallantly to her 
brother’s aid. 

“Apparently your success was not very great,” she 
observed tartly. 

Old Mr. Rochdale hastily smoothed over possible 
trouble by inquiring concerning the personal character 
of the natives. 

“They are very simple and real,” the girl replied 
warmly. “You find the same fears and jealousies and 
faults as everywhere else; but they are not hidden by 
any thin veneer of civilization. When they love or hate, 
they do so openly.” 

“I hope,” remarked Miss Davies, not much liking her 
tone, “you made them wear decent clothing?” 

Miss Horne regarded her rival in intelligence with 
superior contempt. “Where on earth would she get the 
clothes?” she inquired disdainfully. 

“Most of them were naked,” said Barbara; “some wore 
a little matting.” 

The “Negatives” flushed redder, and everybody 



286 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


rather hurriedly went on eating. Hugh hurled himself 
into the silence, thinking to change the subject. 

“What did you do about clothes, Bab? Did your own 
last out?” 

“Fairly well. I made some breeches, and wore them.” 

The vicar coughed; Mr. Brent-Hewson spilt his salt 
and asked Miss Brown if she liked snow; Mrs. Stockley 
refused her favorite game in her embarrassment; the 
“Negatives” resembled scarlet geraniums by this time. 
. . . Mrs. Rochdale remarked tactfully: “Dear, dear! 
Isn’t it all like a novel? If you had been there, Hugh, 
it would have been really romantic!” 

Hugh laughed. “I shouldn’t be much good on a desert 
island,” he observed modestly. “Must have been beastly 
uncomfortable.” 

“I bet Bab often wished you were there!” smiled old 
Mr. Rochdale, in his genial way. “Only she won’t own 
it. Now, Hugh, make her confess!” 

But Hugh’s glance had fallen upon the girl’s left hand, 
and he did not reply. 

“It must have been difficult,” remarked Miss Horne, 
stepping in where no angel would ever tread, “to prevent 
going mad from sheer boredom. The monotony, with 
only one companion, must have been awful! Could you 
find anything on earth to talk about, all the time ?” 

Barbara felt like one undergoing slow torture; her 
nerves seemed lacerated. It was the constant repetition 
of little drops of water which sent the condemned man 
mad. Conscious of her aunt’s raised lorgnette, and the 
penetrating glance of the vicar’s sister under cover of 
this apparently artless question, she laughed a little 
hysterically. 

“Oh, yes! There was plenty to talk about.” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 287 

“Bab,” asked Hugh, “whatever are you wearing in 
the shape of a ring? Where is mine?” 

Everybody craned forward, and she hastily withdrew 
her hand. It seemed as if curious hostile eyes were 
peering at something sacred, the only thing of value to 
her now in life. 

“I—have lost your ring, Hugh. It was left on the 
island with everything else.” 

“And you are wearing that instead? I must get 
another at once. What is it ? A key-ring ?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Once,” remarked the vicar, rising from his oblivion, 
“I had the case of a wedding-party forgetting the ring; 
and I married them with a key-ring!” 

“Really!” asked Miss Davies. “I suppose it is quite 
legal?” 

“Quite! Provided, of course, that everything else is 
in order and a priest performs the ceremony.” 

Barbara’s right hand closed convulsively upon her left, 
under the table. 

“The impotence of the situation must have been 
appalling when your wedding-day arrived,” Miss Horne 
observed, watching her narrowly again. “Weren’t you 
nearly demented?” 

“I felt simply rotten then,” murmured Hugh. 

Barbara’s clenched hands opened and closed again. 
“Curiously enough,” she replied, with forced lightness, 
“that was the only day on which we saw a ship!” 

Miss Horne’s insight into deep matters being slight, 
she sought, like many of her type, to cover this deficiency 
by vaunting her knowledge of obvious externals. This 
sort of thing never fails to impress some people. . . . 
She took the opportunity she had now secured of con- 


288 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


tinuing the conversation which had previously failed, by 
putting Barbara through a kind of geographical and 
geological examination, in which her own intelligence 
would shine as the morning star. She found herself quite 
able to argue facts, and even to answer the queries of 
others on behalf of the girl: which was so typical that the 
ghost of the latter’s old impatience revived. But when 
you have heard the roar of lions, you do not heed the 
buzzing of flies. They only seem a foolish nuisance. 

Miss Davies inwardly fumed, searching wildly for an 
opportunity to crush this belated star and rise from 
obscurity herself like a dazzling sun. She made several 
attempts, but the star refused to wane; in fact, it grew 
yet brighter, launching forth—with glittering eyes and 
shining pince-nez—into a dissertation on the palolo. 

Then the sun, so to speak, pricked up its ears. 

“The palolo,” replied Miss Horne, in answer to some¬ 
body’s query, “is an annelid. It rises, for propagation, 
to the surface of the water in October or November, and 
divides-” 

“Ah, yes!” interrupted the sun, shooting a beam from 
her rising glory, “I have read about that, too, Miss 
Horne! Very interesting. The description is in that 
book by—by—what’s his name—in Hillbeak Library ; 
isn’t it?” 

Miss Horne turned sarcastic, tolerant eyes upon her 
rival. “Is it?” she asked blandly. “I dare say. You 
have joined their Self-Education Branch, have you not? 
Such a boon for these unintelligent villages!” 

“It is indeed!” agreed Miss Davies sweetly, with the 
proved superiority of a visitor from the World. “You 
have often told me how invaluable you have found it. 
I think your wife belongs, too, Mr. Brent-Hewson ?” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


289 


He was so much startled at finding the lorgnette 
directed upon his insignificant person that he nearly spilt 
his port over his nuts. Mrs. Brent-Hewson was unavoid¬ 
ably absent, owing to a Christmas lecturing tour. 

“Yes. Excellent! Most instructive!” he stammered, 
with guilty knowledge of the pile of heavy unread litera¬ 
ture that day returned, surreptitiously, to the library 
shelves. 

“When does she return?” asked old Mr. Rochdale, 
glad of a respite from Miss Horne’s intelligence. 

“Oh! not yet,” he replied, rather too hastily. “Not 
for a week, I ho—think.” 

“What is she lecturing on?” inquired his hostess. 

The little man was quite confused by so much unaccus¬ 
tomed attention. “I—er—I’m not sure! Something 
about the cause of Strikes, I think.—No! Eugenics?— 
No! Now, was it drains again . . .?” 

“Products?” suggested Barbara kindly, with acute 
memories. 

“Ah, yes!” He smiled brightly at the rare enigma 
influenced by man. “Products and their Cultivation. 
She lectures upon so many topics-” 

“Yes, indeed,” put in the vicar, nodding profoundly. 
“Wonderfully clever woman, with a wide range of 
knowledge! Tremendous powers of influence in her 
hands—‘A light to guide, a rod to’—h’m! yes, indeed. 

. . .” He relapsed into deep thought, as if tracing her 
guiding influence down all the drains of all the ages. 
Then, as Mrs. Rochdale rose, he hurried to Barbara’s 
side. 

“We must have a little talk soon, Miss Stockley. Your 
work in the parish has been much missed: I am anxious 
to fix up your classes again-” 



290 SINNERS IN HEAVEN 

“I’m afraid, Mr. Horne, I can not undertake parish 
work, now.” 

He gazed at her for a moment, speechless. This 
“sheep” had certainly wandered far! 

“But—but-” he began, then stopped, his mouth 

still open. With scarcely an audible reply, she had fol¬ 
lowed the other women from the room, leaving him 
staring after her. . . . He—the vicar—set at nought! 
What degeneration did a soul suffer when removed from 
civilized influences—above all, from the sacraments of 
the church! . . . Here was subject-matter for next Sun¬ 
day’s sermon. . . . 

Mr. Horne relapsed into deep thought, while watching 
the other men drink their port. 

IV 

To Barbara, that evening seemed never-ending, her 
false position intolerable. She craved yet dreaded, the 
morrow when she could talk with Hugh. 

Once by themselves, the women’s tongues buzzed over 
their coffee-cups concerning the latest local scandal. She 
sat a little apart, but half listening to the stream of com¬ 
ments upon Tony Field’s misdemeanors. Everybody now 
realized they had suspected Tony of underhand practises 
years ago! Could Sybil divorce him? Mrs. Field was 
pitied and much blamed for begetting such a son. In 
fact, Tony assumed at once the blackest of sheep’s fleeces, 
Mrs. Stockley clinching the matter by remarking that it 
was “simply re-pre-/t^w^-ible.” . . . The verdict of a 
judge and jury would have been superfluous. 

Mrs. Rochdale then proceeded with a garrulous account 
of a housemaid treasure, possessing all the virtues, in 
whose room four empty whisky bottles had been found, 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


291 


during her absence on holiday! As she had been a 
frequenter of temperance meetings and had taken the 
pledge, this was in itself a terrible sin, even though she 
had never been seen drunk. Whether to allow her to 
return, or to write and denounce her forthwith, exercised 
her mistress’s simple mind to the exclusion of sleep. . . . 
After much discussion, it was decided to ask the vicar. 

A swift vision of Mrs. Field and her probable action in 
such a case rose to Barbara’s mind; but her attention 
was arrested by an allusion to Major Randall. Here were 
others who, like herself, had struck deep chords entailing 
big decisions and convictions, upon which, rightly or 
wrongly, they had acted. 

“Where is the first Mrs. Randall?” she asked invol¬ 
untarily. 

“The first!” echoed her aunt, whose views upon this 
subject were still adamant. 

“Nobody knows,” replied the vicar’s sister carelessly. 
“Her co-respondent died suddenly, two years ago.” 

“Oh! Poor woman!” The girl’s voice held such 
unusual warmth that Miss Davies looked at her through 
raised lorgnette, rather sharply. 

“A providential punishment,” she observed grimly. 

“But—what did she do, then?” 

Miss Horne shrugged disinterestedly. “Nobody 
knows,” she repeated indifferently. “I heard she had 
gone abroad. Of course, nobody visits with the Randalls 
now. Even if they did, they could scarcely mention her. 
Oh!—I believe Mrs. Field was seen with her, somewhere. 
I forget where.” 

“How she must have suffered!” 

Miss Davies raised the lorgnette again. “You take 
an extraordinary interest in her, Barbara!” 


292 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I liked her. I’m sure she never risked and lost—all 
she did, without much suffering. She was always kind 
to people. Doesn’t anybody know or care what has 
become of her?” She looked around rather hotly, but 
the thrust passed entirely off the armor of self-com¬ 
placency encasing those who heard her words; and just 
then the men made their appearance. 

The girl shrank into her chair, sick at heart, old talks 
with Alan in her mind. What key, she wondered, did 
these people use in substitution for the true one given to 
the world and lost again? “Charity suffereth long and 
is kind,” they read glibly; or “He that is without sin 
among you, let him cast the first stone.” What did half 
the righteous souls, judging everybody in their own 
smug conception of Christianity, know of temptation, sin, 
the meaning of the word love with all its manifold sub¬ 
keys: consideration, understanding, sympathy? . . . 

“My dear,” broke in old Mr. Rochdale’s voice, as he 
seated himself beside her, “we must bring back the roses 
into your cheeks!” He took her hand and patted it. 
“You mustn’t brood over the past. It was a terrible 
experience—terrible! But it’s all over now. Forget it, 
Barbara, like a bad dream, and cheer up again.” 

The words were, to the girl, like blades of steel thrust 
into sore bleeding wounds. “Over. . . . Forget!” . . . 
They seemed to reverberate in her mind, and her very 
soul turned sick and faint as, gripping the arms of her 
chair, she heard her mother’s voice: 

“Her time will soon be full again until her wedding, 
with all her old duties-” 

Then Hugh came up and chatted, in his usual cheery 
way, and somebody played and sang. . . . But all the 
time those two words beat upon her brain. God! was 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


293 


it true? Was this net once more to capture her? Was 
this nightmare to become the reality, and the splendid 
real—all the very essence of life—to fade into the dream ? 

That night the stupor of pain, which had enveloped her 
all these weeks, fell away like the effects of an anesthetic. 
These few hours of slow torture, culminating in kindly- 
meant words, tore it to fragments, leaving her in an agony 
of mind bordering upon frenzy. Once within the haven 
of her room, she blew out the light, as if unable to bear 
it, and threw herself, fully-dressed, upon her bed, moan¬ 
ing, her only conscious wish being for death to come and 
end the blank empty years stretching ahead. . . . Her 
heart rose up in rebellion at this wanton shattering of her 
life—this seemingly mocking hand which had hurled her 
away to a wilderness, given her the great keynote to tune 
it all to paradise; then, with such ruthless cruelty, had 
torn it from her grasp. . . . 

She lay, in her inner and outer darkness, until the 
unsympathetic gray fingers of the wintry dawn roused 
her with their clammy touch. . . . 

The morning was cold and bright. After a pretense at 
breakfast, she put on her coat, Hugh not being expected 
before lunch, and her mother not yet down. 

A craving for freedom from stone walls, for vigorous 
action, had seized her. The cold air stinging her face, 
the wind buffeting her skirts, dulled momentarily the 
agony within. The lake glistened in the sunshine; here 
and there sprigs of ling still showed purple amid the 
russet of dead heather and bracken upon the common; 
the white sandy paths were crisp with frost. 

At the corner where the lane joined the main road, she 
paused. Here, she and that other had first met. With 
exquisite pain, memories of those far-off first encounters 


294 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


seethed into her mind. She saw again the half-mocking 
smile upon his lips; remembered his teasing words and 
her own annoyance, after speaking of her heart’s desire. 
. . . She understood, as she turned hurriedly away, how, 
from the first, those keen eyes had read into her heart, 
penetrating to what she was but vaguely conscious of 
herself. . . . Her heart’s desire? Ah, how changed it all 
was now—how changed! . . . Since treading last these 
familiar, heathery paths, a lifetime seemed to have 
elapsed. She looked back with wonder upon the inex¬ 
perienced girl dimly yearning after an intangible some¬ 
thing beyond the daily horizon. . . . 

Presently she turned her steps to the house where so 
many happy hours had been spent. The garden looked 
deserted now, the tennis-court frostbound and dreary. 
But the housekeeper welcomed her warmly; and the few 
school-teachers installed there for Christmas holidays 
looked at her with ill-concealed curiosity. She hurried 
away, up to Mrs. Field’s little den. Its owner being one 
of those whose arrivals ever had the charm of unex¬ 
pectedness, the room had a cheerful fire and was fragrant 
with hothouse flowers. As Barbara looked round at the 
buff walls and deep-blue velvet curtains, the soft chairs 
built for comfort, and shelves stacked with books, other 
memories of confidential chats and cozy teas caused her 
again to realize the gulf yawning between herself and 
the girl of long ago. 

She turned to the book-shelves, then walked restlessly 
back to the fire. ... All at once she caught, with a 
little cry, at the back of a chair, as her glance fell upon 
the writing-table. 

For the eyes she loved and had lost met her own, with 
the old straight penetrating look. . . . She ran forward 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


295 


and picked up the photograph. He wore the uniform of 
an Air Force officer, and his face was set in the lines of 
dogged stubbornness when unpleasant business was afoot, 
which she knew well. . . . The vivid likeness was bitter¬ 
sweet. 

“It’s a damned nuisance—get it done!” She could 
almost hear the thought she read behind the grim lips. 
. . . Then, as she gazed upon the familiar features, all 
the past rose up and enveloped her: the comfortable 
English room faded. . . . Once more, in a far-away hut, 
she prepared strange food for her mate, ever and anon 
running to look for his return, seeing little black figures 
at play on the sand. . . . And presently he came striding 
down the sunny slope, fresh from a dip in the river, 
laden with fruit, his dear eyes searching for her. . . . 
She hurried to meet him, taking some of his burden. . . . 
Again she felt the warm touch of his lips, heard the laugh¬ 
ter in his voice as he made some teasing remark. . . . 

The ringing of a bell brought her sharply back to 
reality, the sudden cruel contrast cutting her like a whip. 
With a low moan she sank upon a couch, throwing her¬ 
self face downward among the cushions, her lips pressed 
to the unresponsive portrait. Despair again clutched her 
in its remorseless claws. . . . She lay inert in her blind 
tearless abandonment, oblivious to all things. . . . 

The opening door and quick footsteps crossing the 
room did not disturb her. At the touch of an arm about 
her shoulders she started violently and raised a drawn 
face. Hugh stood beside her, consternation in his eye. 

“Bab!” he exclaimed, shocked by her expression. 
“My dearest! whatever is the matter?” 

She sat slowly upright, the portrait still clasped with 
both arms, regarding him dumbly. 


296 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I managed to get away this morning—Martha said 

you were here-” he stammered. “What is it, Bab? 

I—I thought something was wrong-” 

It occurred to her that anybody less stupidly dense 
and unimaginative would have guessed the truth long 
ago. Then, swiftly chasing the thought, came the knowl¬ 
edge that it was his genuine simple trust in her and all 
his fellow-creatures which blinded him. Suspicion was 
as foreign to his honest nature as subtle changes were 
beyond his ken. She recognized, with a warm rush of 
sympathy, that her affection for this old companion 
remained unchanged; she alone was to blame for mis¬ 
taking it for anything more, with the inevitable suffering 
she was about to cause. She stretched out her hand; 
and he took it in both of his. 

“Hughie! Everything is—wrong.” 

“Tell me all about it,” he urged, sitting beside her. 
“We can probably put things right between us.” 

She shook her head, with a catch of her breath; then 
drew her hand gently free again. 

“I’m—I’ve got to hurt you—horribly. Oh! my dear! 
I can’t bear doing it.” Rising impulsively, she walked 
to the window and back, her face working with emotion. 
“Can’t you—guess, Hugh? Can’t you realize that—that 
—everything is different, now ?” she cried, looking 
straight into his bewildered face. 

Apprehension was spreading over his features. His 
brown eye, with its dawning sense of trouble, resembled 
that of a faithful dog not understanding the meaning of 
some unexpected chastisement. The girl could not bear 
to see it. She looked involuntarily down at what was 
still clasped to her breast. His glance followed hers, and 
the apprehension deepened. 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


297 

“Guess—what?” he muttered. “What’s that, Bab? 
A photograph?” 

She nodded. He suddenly stepped toward her. 
“Whose? What—I—oh, lord! Tell me straight!” 

It was the cry of one upon the borderland of tragic 
discovery. Feeling like an old-time executioner who let 
the ax fall upon the quivering neck of his victim, ending 
the hopes and affections of a lifetime, she silently handed 
him the photograph, and again turned to the window. 

Looking with unseeing eyes at the frosty landscape, 
her thoughts reverted to a curiously similar scene in the 
past, wherein the situation was reversed. Hugh’s portrait 
had played its part in that little drama. Alan, she re¬ 
membered, had, with characteristic vehemence, torn it 
into shreds . . . then claimed her for his own, by the 
only bonds which constitute real possession of a woman. 
There may be other lawful ties, honorably recognized 
and adhered to; but, whether near in physical presence, 
or sundered by countless miles of sea and land, even by 
death itself, only the man to whom a woman’s heart 
belongs holds her in true possession. None other can 
turn the key which unlocks the real fountains of her soul. 

Hugh did not tear the cardboard to fragments. After 
a few moments’ pregnant silence, he laid it upon a table 
and followed the girl to the window. His face was pale, 
and his voice toneless. “You mean, Bab, that-” 

“I—I can never marry you.” 

He caught at a chair, but said nothing. 

“I—care for you—as much as ever,” she went on hur¬ 
riedly, seeing the look on his face. “But—it was never 
love! I have learned that, Hugh. I know now-” 

“You mean-?” he asked again huskily, as her voice 

faltered. “Croft?” 





298 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


She nodded. The color ebbed still more from his 
cheeks, and he laid a hand on her arm. “But—my poor 
Bab! he is—dead ” 

“Oh, I know! I know!” She clasped her hands in 
anguish. “But—you shall hear all the truth, Hugh—it 
is your due. He—I—he was my husband.” 

Hugh started violently and dropped his hand. She 
stood motionless before him. For several long moments 
the ticking of a little clock and the crackling of the fire 
were the only audible sounds. In his slow fashion, the 
man was trying, gropingly, to adjust facts. 

“But-” he began at last, “I don't understand! You 

were only together a few weeks before the wreck. Where 
did you get—married? Why didn’t somebody write? I 
don’t understand,” he repeated, bewildered. “I thought 
you disliked him.” 

She looked silently into his agitated face. It was 
evident that the truth was still far from his grasp. 

“Hughie,” she said very quietly, “it was impossible 
to write. We were not married during the trip—not 
until we had been on the island for—over a year.” 

He gazed at her, speechless, his bewilderment grad¬ 
ually changing to dismay and dawning horror. 

“On the island? For a year?” he echoed. “But—how 

on earth could you get married-?” Suddenly the 

blood rushed to his temples and the horror grew and 
deepened. He caught her arm, gripping it fiercely. 
“You-—my God! Barbara! you don’t mean that you— 
you, of all people-and Croft-?” 

Abruptly he swung her arm free, his face blazing as 
she had never seen it. “The swine! the—the rotten 
swine!” he choked, at a loss for words. “I trusted him. 
He gave me his word-” 






SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


299 


"And he kept it,” she cried quickly. 

He faced her, something nearer to a sneer than she 
had ever seen curling his good-natured lips. "In what 
way? By betraying the greatest trust one man can put 
in another? By dragging you down-” 

"Be quiet, Hugh!” 

The anger in her voice silenced him. He turned away, 
dazed. Sinking upon the couch, he covered his face with 
his hands. 

The girl was trembling with indignation. Her back to 
the room, she struggled with the hot anger seething within 
until her woman’s understanding won the victory. Then 
she turned round. 

"It was my doing,” she said. 

"Your—doing?” He sprang to his feet and walked 
about agitatedly. "What d’you mean? You were not 

the sort of girl to encourage- For God’s sake, explain 

everything!” 

"He kept his word to you,” she repeated. "He saved 
my life at the risk of his own. In every possible way he 
looked after my safety and comfort: nobody could have 
done more. Although he—cared—all the time, I never 
even guessed it! He—he thought I—belonged to you.” 
She paused, shading her eyes. 

"Then-?” 

"Months went by, and no rescue came. Then—I—oh, 
Hughie, I couldn’t help it!—I realized—I loved him, and 
—and he—knew it, too. ... We meant to wait—and 
tell you. But months passed again, and—the position 
became impossible. You can’t understand here. But 
there we had to face facts—quite differently from ordi¬ 
nary standpoints—to make our own laws. He left the 
decision to me. ... At last, after months again of 




3 °° 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


struggle and—uncertainty—I became convinced that it 

would be right to make our own marriage, too-” She 

touched her finger. “This was the only ring he had.” 

Her words went into silence. A faint relief replaced 
the look of horror in Hugh’s face. To an essentially 
clean-living British sportsman, the idea of wantonness 
between the girl he loved and the man he had trusted 
was unbearable. That hasty judgment was contradicted 
by her words. He could not, as she surmised, clearly 
comprehend the magnitude of the forces to be contended 
with upon the island, any more than a man learning 
swimming strokes in still water can realize the difficulties 
to be encountered, by the same movements, out in the 
open sea. But the simplicity of her explanation, offering 
no excuses, brought with it the force of truth. Evidently, 
however incomprehensibly, each had acted in accordance 
with deeply-weighed convictions. . . . 

This was Hugh’s first plunge into such complications: 
he was utterly lost, adrift from every mooring. 

Barbara, watching him, half held out her hand. 

“You must not think hardly of Alan,” she appealed 
wistfully. “If he had not behaved honorably, I should 
not have—loved him—as I did. Surely you believe that, 
Hugh?” 

Mechanically he took her hand. “Oh, lord!” he 
ejaculated. “What a mess it all is!” 

“It’s hell for me!” she exclaimed, a bitter agony in 
her voice that startled him. He looked at her strangely, 
amazed. This tragic-eyed woman who had suffered so 
much, learning to love with such fierce intensity, was far 
removed from his old girlish companion. He felt in a 
turmoil: full of pity for her, though still half-incredulous, 
chaotically uncertain of his feelings toward Croft. Drop- 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


301 


ping her hand, he picked up the photograph once more. 
Then the full realization of his own loss—to be faced for 
the second time—surged up in his heart, as he looked at 
the pictured face. He put it down hurriedly, and passed 
his hand across his forehead. 

"It’s a—damned world now for us both, Bab! I—I’d 

better go—it has rather bowled me over-” He turned 

away, stumbling a little. “It—will be such a blow to 
the old people,” he muttered huskily. 

The girl watched him, helplessly, with aching heart. 
As he reached the door, she caught the suspicious glint of 
misery in his eye which seemed to break down all barriers. 
Her defensive attitude melted into sympathy, as ice melts 
at the touch of hot coals. In her old impulsive way she 
ran to him and seized the lapels of his tweed coat. 

“Hughie!” she cried, tears raining unheeded down 
her cheeks. “Forgive me! I couldn’t help it. It—it 
breaks my heart to hurt you like this.” 

His hands closed upon her arms, but he could not speak. 

“I—couldn’t bear to-betray your trust,” she sobbed. 

“Believe me, Hughie, I tried not to—I tried to keep 
loyal to you-” 

“Oh!” he interrupted vehemently, “don’t make it 
harder! D’you suppose I should have wanted you to 
marry me from—duty? out of loyalty?” He paused, 
regarding her thoughtfully for a moment. “There’s one 
thing, Bab-” 

“Yes?” 

“When you tell—your mother or anybody of—things— 
being over between us, don’t mention your marriage! 
They won’t understand, and it will be rough for you.” 

She threw back her head, with something of Alan’s old 
arrogance, and drew away. 



3° 2 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I know you mean that kindly, Hugh; but it's impos¬ 
sible! It would seem as if I were ashamed. It would 
be implying that our convictions were wrong." 

“People are not over-charitable about here, as you 
know," he urged. “You may both have acted according 
to your convictions, and they may have been right; but 
all the same it was—unorthodox, and-" 

Barbara dashed her hand down upon a neighboring 
table, causing the things upon it to shake. “How is it 
possible to reconcile Darbury orthodoxy with a desert 
island?" she cried impatiently. 

“It probably isn’t," he agreed hastily; “but that’s not 
the point. Few people will try. They will simply 
throw mud at you and—especially—him! Bab," he came 
back to her, speaking with unusual insistence, “I can’t 
bear to think of you facing that! For my sake, as well 
as your own—and—his, don’t tell them." 

She remained silent. The truth of his words, as applied 
to Alan, struck her forcibly. The contemplation of his 
name suffering calumny had already, that morning, 
proved unbearable. 

“It would be an awful trouble to your mother and my 
old people," he added, with his usual thoughtfulness. 
“They will be upset, as it is. And—they couldn’t un¬ 
derstand." 

She suddenly turned and caught his shoulders. 

“Hughie! do you?” she asked earnestly. “Ah! you 
must I I can’t lose—your faith, too." 

Then he acted in a manner that astonished them both. 
Passion and a sense of the dramatic had ever been far 
from his nature. Involuntarily, however, his fingers 
closed around her wrists. Raising her hands, he pressed 
his lips upon them. 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


303 

“Heaven knows what was right or wrong,” he declared 
hurriedly. “But—oh, my dear! God help you!” 

The door slammed, and he was gone from her life— 
this man who had been friend and brother, playmate or 
lover, all her youth. . . . She stood gazing drearily 
through the window at the desolate tennis-court, where 
they had played so often together, and an extra wave of 
lonely bitterness swept into her heart. . . . She saw 
Hugh, with bent head, cross the grass to the garden-gate, 
followed by the faithful Shag. . . . Then she sank into 
a chair before the fire, crushed by an overpowering sense 
of physical weakness. 

V 

Darbury seethed and bubbled, and consumed end¬ 
less tea, over the matrimonial troubles of two erst¬ 
while parishioners, followed by the broken engagement 
of Hugh and Barbara. It is always easier to criticize 
other people’s actions with the air of this soothing bever¬ 
age. It seems to enhance one’s own sense of respecta¬ 
bility in a world of sin. 

Nobody was surprised, of course! Nobody ever is on 
such occasions. Everybody knew that something would 
happen—which is always a safe conjecture. 

But what everybody did not know concerning the 
latter thrill was the real reason. And herein lay the cause 
of the emptying tea-caddies. Unfortunately, Miss Davies 
was in London attending Christmas Meeting over “fallen 
girls,” so the mystery remained unsolved. But the weed 
of suspicion grew into a lusty tree. Again, and in louder 
tones, the question arose: What happened on the island? 

Mrs. Brent-Hewson—returning sooner than her hus¬ 
band had fondly dreamed—was untroubled by doubts. 
“Of course they acted like fools!” she said, puffing out a 


304 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


cloud of cigarette smoke. “They had nothing else to do; 
and both of them lacked real intelligence/’ After which 
disposal of the matter, she replaced the cigarette, thrust 
her hands into her pockets, and gazed contemplatively 
at the ceiling. Real events of life were occupying her 
mind, it being the season of the killing of her pigs. 

It was known that the Rochdales and Mrs. Stockley 
were deeply upset, the latter exceedingly wroth; but the 
two most affected kept their own counsel. 

Miss Brown—as was but right in anything apper¬ 
taining to romance—was the first to meet Hugh, and was 
delightfully shocked over his depressed appearance. She 
hurried to the vicarage to begin there her recital of the 
episode, while, with one of her inspirations deciding 
upon the first line of a new poem to be called Blasted 
Hope. . . . 

The only ray of comfort to Barbara in her wretchedness 
lay in her aunt’s absence. The relations between her 
mother and herself were of the coldest. Mrs. Stockley 
never forgot her position as a beacon, nor her Honorable 
Grandmother’s gracious act in establishing her own 
identity with the county. This marriage between her 
daughter and Darbury’s future squire had been her 
dearest ambition. Now, for no tangible reason, this 
ambition—revived with the girl’s return—was hurled to 
the ground. Not easily could Mrs. Stockley view the 
dashing of her hopes. The scene between them had been 
stormy. She had wept, cajoled and upbraided, exasper¬ 
ated by the other’s irrevocable demeanor. 

“You are throwing away what many would give their 
eyes to possess!” she cried at last. “What will people 
say? There has been enough talk already. You confess 
you still care for Hugh-” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


305 


“Oh, yes, yes!” interrupted Barbara impatiently. 
“But that’s not sufficient. It’s not a woman’s love for a 
man: that’s quite a different thing. I know.” 

“Don’t talk like a novelette!” her mother broke in 
querulously. Then, suddenly, her eyes narrowed and 
her thin face sharpened. “How do you know?” she 
asked meaningly. 

Barbara was momentarily off her guard, not realizing 
her slip. The other woman pursued the advantage. 

“Answer me, Barbara! I have not hitherto pressed 
for the confidence that was my due—in spite of the gossip 
which has come to my knowledge. You owe it to us 
all, now, to give an account of your life upon that island. 
Did anything happen there to cause this step?” 

The girl stood looking down into the fire, uncertain 
of her reply, for a few moments. Her mother gave a 
little click with her lips. 

“Ah!” she said decisively, “we thought so!” 

“Thought what?” cried Barbara, turning sharply. 

“That there had been some nonsense between you and 
that man, unchaperoned as you were.” 

The girl’s eyes smoldered ominously, and she set her 
teeth. Her mother, exasperated by this reticence, con¬ 
tinued with increasing anger: 

“I ought never to have given my consent. I always 
knew he was an unscrupulous type of man—I never 
trusted him! But you at least should have known better, 
after your very careful upbringing. If his ideas were 
loose-” 

“Stop, mother!” Her quick anger mounted. “You 
don’t know what you are saying. He was the soul of 
honor. And because of it I—yes, I grew to love him 
with all my heart. I couldn’t help it. I shall love him 


306 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


until I die,” she cried recklessly, throwing herself into a 
chair and burying her head. 

“You mean to say,” asked Mrs. Stockley sarcastically, 
“that it is ‘the soul of honor’ to take advantage of a 
girl’s lonely position? To lure her from the man-” 

“He did not!” She sprang angrily to her feet; then 
realized, too late, the wisdom of Hugh’s warning. 

Her mother laughed incredulously. 

“Then you gave him your affection unasked? You 
behaved like a sentimental schoolgirl—threw yourself at 
his head, in fact ?” 

Anything was better than exposing Alan’s name to 
the fate awaiting it if the truth oozed out. She caught 
at this straw, anxious to end the ordeal. 

“If you like to think so. He certainly never—asked 
me to care for him. But I couldn’t help it,” she repeated. 

Thus it was whispered from one bosom friend to 
another throughout Darbury that, during her sojourn 
upon the island, Barbara became the victim of an unre¬ 
quited passion. This added spice to the mystery, while 
whetting curiosity. Did her companion never guess? 
Could any man, in such circumstances, be so blind—or 
so platonic? 

Curious glances followed her; voices were lowered 
when she appeared; a constraint became obvious in her 
presence. ... Well aware of it all, she threw it off with 
a shrug, scorn adding to the misery of her heart as she 
dragged through the days. Occasionally her mother 
forced the subject open again. 

“If Hugh ever wishes to renew the engagement,” she 
said once, “I insist upon your doing so.” 

“I couldn’t possibly, mother!” 

“Why not? The other man is dead. . . . You can’t 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


307 


ruin your life over an infatuation of that sort/’ . . . “The 
Rochdales are such old friends,” she moaned, another 
time. “You don’t consider how I miss them—how this 
all affects me!” 

“But you can continue your friendship. Why not?” 
asked the girl, having grown unaccustomed to Darbury 
habits. This, however, was contrary to all custom; and 
a certain estrangement between the two families began, 
as' a matter of course. . . . 

These attacks were interspersed with other maternal 
disagreements. Perpetually some remark or action jarred 
the refinement upon which the Bishop-plus-Honorable’s 
Granddaughter prided herself. Two years of emancipa¬ 
tion had swept away all such gossamer cobwebs from 
Barbara’s enlarged horizon. She expressed her views 
with a natural freedom which shocked everybody. Who 
could forget certain remarks at Mrs. Rochdale’s party? 
Especially that brazen allusion to an article of apparel 
worn openly by men, but apparently unnoticed by women ? 
Well—well! Over some things ’tis best to draw a veil_ 

Excitements, like troubles, never come singly. The 
fates—or furies—having once turned their attention to 
Darbury, hurled down agitations. Ten days before 
Christmas, Major Randall met a tragic death in the 
hunting-field. It was Hugh who found him, and with 
ghastly face, helped to convey the broken body home to 
his distressed widow—thus again floundering in the flood 
of incomprehensible suffering, in what had once seemed 
the best of all possible worlds. 

Kindly impulses now warred with outraged convention 
among those who had shunned the household. After 
two years’ aloofness, could one call and offer sympathy? 
Ought one to do so? In many instances, the kindliness 


3°8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


latent in most natures might have triumphed, had not 
the vicar's vigilant conscience raised its head. After 
an estrangement owing to ineradicable differences of 
opinion during his lifetime, it refused to allow the Rev¬ 
erend Horne to bridge the gulf when this erring member 
of his flock lay dead. He decided, after deep and painful 
thought, that sin could not thus be swept aside and 
condoned. It would be a demoralizing example. It 
became his grievous duty to refuse to conduct the funeral 
service, as he previously refused to conduct the “mockery 
of marriage.” His convictions were firm upon the in¬ 
crease of laxity and vice resulting from this mania for 
divorce sweeping across a degenerating world. The 
courage to act up to them was not lacking, and it brought 
him real suffering. The division of opinion among his 
friends, caused by this decision, was extremely painful; 
nevertheless, it inflamed his martyr-like sense of duty. 
Had it been possible, he would have denied burial in the 
Randall family vault. As it was, he went away for the 
day, the key of the vestry door in his pocket. This 
last act, by its childishness, spoiled among his admirers 
the effect produced by his strength of conscience. A 
burst of indignation arose; and the parish was “divided 
against itself.” 

A friend of the Randalls officiated—a kind elderly 
man who blew out most of the innumerable candles he 
found burning in the church. Hugh, pale and interesting 
as Miss Brown thought, and Mr. Brent-Hewson—his 
top-hat resembling, on his bald head, a thimble on a 
melon—followed their old sporting friend who had taken 
fiis last fence. . . . 

Barbara, without considering Darbury’s feelings in 
the matter, went to see the friendless young widow. It 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


309 


was the first of many visits, which increased the breach 
with her mother. Mrs. Stockley could never differ from 
her vicar—to do so bordered upon sacrilege. She remon¬ 
strated, stormed, wept, finally forbade her to go to “that 
house.” Then Barbara put into words the growing 
resolve in her mind. 

“If I can’t live a free life here, I will go away.” 

And Mrs. Stockley burst into fresh tears, crying that 
she was hardly used, bewailing her widowhood and the 
ingratitude of modern daughters. 

The suspicions consuming every mind increased ten¬ 
fold, emptying tea-caddies wholesale. This sudden 
friendship with one tabu in Darbury added fuel to the 
fire of doubt over an unrequited passion. Barbara found 
herself treated with still more self-conscious, stilted 
politeness, held further at a distance by all she met. 

She tramped the common in all weathers, consumed 
with a restlessness that would not let her sleep, unable 
to find peace of mind in any occupation. Coming back 
from one of these tramps two days before Christmas, 
she noticed, in the gathering dusk of the short afternoon, 
a woman’s figure standing near the lake, a small child 
in her arms. With a casual glance, the girl was entering 
the cottage gate, when she heard her name uttered low, 
like a faint exclamation. She turned quickly, peering 
with puzzled brow through the gloom; then recognition 
dawned in her face. 

“Jenny? Jenny Grant 1 ” She remembered she had 
not seen the girl since her return. “What are you doing, 
Jenny ? Home for Christmas ?” she asked kindly, presum¬ 
ing her to be now in service somewhere. There was no 
reply; and, aware of the shyness of such village maidens, 
she continued: “Where are you working now ?” 


3io 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I—I ain’t got no work, Miss Barbara.” 

The voice trembled on a sob. Barbara glanced at 
her quickly again, and realized the child’s presence. A 
dim memory of one among the many choice morsels 
recently recounted for her own benefit returned to her 
mind. . . . 

“Oh, Jenny!” she cried involuntarily; then stopped, 
as the girl, hiding her face on the sleeping child, burst 
into a passion of tears. Taking her arm, she led her to a 
seat placed near the lake, saying nothing until the fit of 
weeping had subsided. There was no need of words. 
In Barbara’s face and heartfelt exclamation Jenny had 
read the knowledge she had learned to dread awakening, 
mingled with a sympathy she had never yet encountered. 
Of her own accord, at last, she began a stumbling explana¬ 
tion. 

“ ’E was a sailor, miss. . . . ’E was goin’ to marry me, 
but was ordered sudden-loike back to ’is ship; an’ then 
’e—’e got the ’monia an’ died. . . . But ’e would V 
married me all right! ’E would!” She spoke with a 
defiance which the listening girl understood well. “We 
was wrong, I know,” she went on, “but we was young an’ 
—an’—partin’, an’,” with sinking voice, “I luved ’im! 
Oh, miss! I did indeed!” . . . 

The hand on her arm tightened its grasp. 

“Yes, Jenny. . . I know . . Then for a few mo¬ 
ments she fell silent, reflecting upon the varied and 
extraordinary results—the high resolves and sacrifices, 
the impetuous, hot-headed folly, the loss of all principles— 
achieved by that “terrific force.” . . . “What has hap¬ 
pened since-?” She glanced at the child. “My aunt 

sent you to a ‘Home,’ I think ?” 

“Yes, miss. Arterwards I got work; but the baby 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i i 

was delicate an’ I couldn't ’ave ’im with me. An’ it’s 
bin the same all along. I’ve bin out of work now wi’ ’im 
fur weeks, an’ all me money well-nigh gone. So I cum 
’ome to mother, an’ she—she’s turned me away.” . . . 
The sobs broke out afresh. “I—dunno we’re to go nor 
w’at to do ... I wish I was dead! I was wonderin’, 
there by the lake, if-” 

“No, no, no! Don’t say it, Jenny! We—we’ll think of 
something.” Perhaps it was more than natural aversion 
which forced such horror into her own face and voice. 
“Have you any friends, anywhere ?” 

“Only in Edinburgh,” Jenny replied hopelessly. “I 
’ave an aunt there wot would ’elp me over Christmas if 

I could afford to-” She broke off, swaying forward 

and nearly dropping the child. Barbara took him from 
her. 

“Jenny,” she asked, “have you had any food lately?” 

“I ain’t ’ad—none to-day—miss,” came the whisper. 

With all Alan’s suddenness of purpose, Barbara rose, 
supporting the girl with one arm and the baby boy with 
the other. 

“Come with me,” she said. 

Mrs. Stockley, making out a list of necessities for a 
systematically organized parish tea, presently listened 
aghast to her daughter’s impetuous explanation and ex¬ 
traordinary request. 

“That girl! Jenny Grant! To stay in my house? 
My dear Barbara, I won’t hear of such a thing! What¬ 
ever would people say? A wicked little—where is she 
now ?” 

“Martha is giving her food. She was starving.” 

Her mother gasped. She rose uncertainly, as if on the 
point of frustrating this disposal of her goods; then 





3 12 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


something in the girl’s expression caused her to resume 
her seat. 

“Oh, well! She can have some food. But then she 
is to go, Barbara-” 

“Where?” 

Mrs. Stockley fidgeted with her writing-paper. 

“That’s no concern of mine. Her mother must look 
after her—a most objectionable chapel woman! Your 
aunt will be back to-night. She will do something-” 

Barbara waved this idea to a place unmentionable. 
“Will you lend her the money to reach Edinburgh? I 
haven’t got enough loose cash-” 

“Certainly not! I might never see it again.” 

The girl abruptly left the room at this point, with 
another impulsive resolution. 

Half an hour later, after extricating her charges from 
Martha’s distinctly grim ministrations, she rang the bell 
at the “House on the Moor,” and deposited them in the 
friendly arms of the housekeeper of that harbor where 
all were welcome. “Mrs. Field won’t mind,” she said. 
“I shall be back soon.” She hurried away across the 
dark paths; then turned along the road leading to the 
vicarage. 

“Surely the vicar will help,” she muttered to herself. 

“If only I had the money handy myself-” Down 

the road skirting the wall which bordered Mrs. Brent- 
Hewson’s model piggery, a bicycle-lamp came flashing. 
A dark form flew past the girl; then, with a scraping of 
brakes and rattle of springs, jumped off and hurried 
back. 

“Ah! Miss Stockley! I have wanted to see you.” . . . 
The thrills of the last weeks, and the soul-rending conflict 
over Major Randall’s funeral, had prevented the vicar’s 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i3 


“little talk” with this erring sheep. His voice sounded 
unusually subdued. The division concerning himself was 
causing him real trouble. But his duty had been plain 
and no army could shake it. It must be confessed that 
his sister felt the brunt; for the anti-Horne faction 
seemed shy of openly showing their feelings to him; 
wdiereas they dropped her. Mrs. Brent-Hewson, for 
example, wished him a frigid “How d’you do?”, but cut 
Miss Horne dead when they met . . . Logic was perhaps 
not Darbury’s strongest point! 

“I was just coming to see you, Mr. Home,” Barbara 
replied. 

“Really ? Ah! I am very glad of that. I hoped you 
would.” 

“Why ?” she inquired, in genuine surprise. 

“Because—well, to be candid, I have felt much troubled 
about you.” 

“Indeed?” she said, as he paused. He wheeled his 
bicycle nearer, and spoke somewhat hesitatingly. There 
was that about Barbara, nowadays, which seemed to 
check his bland platitudes. Moreover, his sister had not 
failed to keep him primed with the varying stages of this 
slowly unfolding mystery. 

“I have been genuinely pained,” he continued in his 
pedantic manner, “at your continued refusal to take up 
your old work in the parish, and your absence from 
church. Both have been a real grief to me, as they 
have to your mother. I am overjoyed, therefore, if, at 
last-” 

“No!” she interrupted. “You are mistaken. I—can’t 
do—either.” 

He gave a deep sigh. “But—my dear Miss Stockley— 
when one’s duty lies plain-” 



314 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Mr. Horne!” she interrupted again, a note of sup¬ 
pressed passion in her voice, “if you met a blind man, 
would you send him as guide to a party of tourists ?” 

“Er—no,” he said, bewildered. 

She laid her hand on his bicycle, and the passion rose 
in her hurried words. 

“Suppose your whole life—your thoughts, your mo¬ 
tives, tastes, ideals, faith—had been taken and changed; * 
then whirled around and dashed to the ground, so that— 
so that you were broken, crushed, blind—groping in the 
dark—could you teach children their creed? or train 
young girls to be ‘guides'? or—or kneel in church and 
worship a God whom—if He exists at all—you hate?— 
yes, hate!” 

“Miss Stockley-!” 

“Oh, yes! I know you are horrified. But it's the 
truth. He throws people into the world, then plays with 
them—mocks, laughs-” 

“Miss Stockley!” The vicar literally shouted her into 
silence. “I can’t—and won’t—listen to such wicked 
words! You are beside yourself! Do, pray, think of 
what you are saying-” 

“I am always thinking of it! . . . Now! Do you 
understand at last the impossibility of my taking up my 
‘old work’ ? Don’t you see that I can not ?” 

“I see,” he replied gravely, “that you are in deep 
trouble and taking it very wrongly. Troubles are sent 
to test us, you know—to teach us submission. I have a 
beautiful little book I will lend you upon the subject— 
most helpful-” 

“I know all about that,” she interrupted impatiently. 
“Haven’t I listened to such preaching in this church 
since I was born?” 






SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i5 


Poor Mr. Horne was rendered speechless. 

From the future bacon beyond the wall came an odor 
by no means subtle, ever afterward associated in the 
girl's mind with this talk. She seized the opportunity of 
forwarding her original purpose. 

“I wanted to see you, to-night, about Jenny Grant." 

“Jenny Grant?" he echoed, still dazed. 

In a few sentences she acquainted him with the facts. 
He looked at her, by the light of his bicycle-lamp, in 
yet more astonishment; then, with an air of profound 
melancholy, shook his head and sighed again. 

“They are chapel people, Miss Stockley. It is not 
my business to interfere." 

“But surely-! Whatever difference does that make? 

It’s only a loan of a few pounds—I will pay you back—" 

“You don’t understand these matters. If we begin 
lending money to those who are but suffering the rewards 
of their sins—if we encourage them to expect-" 

Barbara turned away and inhaled a deep breath of 
pig-sty. 

“If only Mrs. Field were here!” she muttered involun¬ 
tarily. 

“Mrs. Field? I saw her at the station-" 

“Saw her? Then she has come back? . . . Good 
night, Mr. Horne!" 

Before he could open his lips, he found himself alone, 
the sound of flying footsteps in his ears. Still feeling 
distinctly dazed, he took off his pince-nez and wiped the 
glass, before mounting his bicycle. . . . Yes, very wrong! 
Whatever the trouble, it was being taken in quite the 
wrong spirit. But one must be broad-minded; one must 
not give up those in sin and darkness. He would send 
her that little book. . . . 



3i6 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


VI 

An anchor at last, in a merciless sea! 

Thus did it seem to the girl stumbling hurriedly 
across the dark common. The windows of the house 
blazed forth a pathway of welcome, long before its refuge 
was reached. Then a bright-faced maid opened the door; 
and that subtle sense of radiant warmth—which is only 
possessed by a house or person when the Spirit of it is at 
the helm—stole out and enveloped her. . . . With a long- 
drawn sigh, she entered the cheerful hall. 

Two school-teachers sat laughing and smoking by the 
fire; from an adjacent room came the sound of a piano¬ 
forte. ... A voice called her name from the landing 
above. . . . 

One swift searching glance at the sharpened white 
features of the girl hurrying up the stairs, and the woman 
in the fur traveling-coat caught the extended hands and 
drew her close into her arms. 

“Oh, Bab darling!” came the cry from her heart’s 
depth. 

A convulsive clinging of thin arms; no words were 
needed. . . . Here was, at last, the blessed peace of 
Understanding. . . . 

When the door of her den was closed behind them, the 
elder woman raised the girl’s face and looked long into 
the sunken eyes, with those deep gray ones which bore 
such resemblance to another’s that Barbara caught her 
breath. She remembered once thinking his lacked their 
wonderful tenderness. But she had seen it grow there— 
intensified. . . . Here, too, was the strong dark hair 
surmounting the broad brow with bitter-sweet similar¬ 
ity. . . . 

“Ah!” she cried, “how I have wanted you!” 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i7 


Mrs. Field pressed her lips upon the tremulous mouth, 
then loosed her. During those few minutes she had 
thought rapidly. Having been run to earth in a railway 
carriage at Waterloo by Miss Davies, the study of a 
Darbury newspaper—had one existed—'was unnecessary. 
She was stuffed with information from that lady’s Un¬ 
limited Publishing Company. It only needed reediting 
by the pen of her own shrewd insight. 

“I want to keep you here for Christmas,” she said. 
“Will you stay? I am leaving again afterward. Miss 
Davies traveled back with me, so your mother does not 
need you.” She saw the flash of unutterable relief cross 
the girl’s face, and turned to the door. Within a few 
minutes a letter had been despatched to Mrs. Stockley, in¬ 
structions given to the housekeeper, their outdoor clothes 
removed, and they were back in the little sitting-room. 

Mrs. Field knelt and poked the fire into a bright blaze, 
then looked up at the silent figure beside her. Her eyes 
followed those of the girl toward the writing-table and 
the photograph upon it. . . . And she understood. She 
rose to her feet. And all the peculiar magnetism, which 
drew people of every class and creed to this woman, 
shone in her face, seemed to vibrate in the hand she 
held out. As the other caught at it, the sealed chamber 
of her tortured heart burst open in one agonized cry: 

“I love him . . . Oh! I love him so. . . .” 

“And—he, Barbara?” 

“He—loved me.” 

“Ah!” 

The ejaculation was full of mingled relief and com¬ 
prehension. Her cousin’s absorption in his work, travels, 
or ambitions, to the exclusion of softer emotions, had 
often been a matter of both chaff and regret between them. 


3i8 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Much had she wondered concerning those two in their 
peculiar isolation. But ever, also, she had been aware 
of those sides of his nature shown to few. . . . What he 
might mean to a woman who at last awakened his love, 
she could well guess. . . . 

Barbara abruptly held out her left hand. 

“This was our wedding-ring/’ she whispered. 

The involuntary start which the other gave was quickly 
controlled. She met steadily, albeit with some appre¬ 
hension, the girl’s searching look—seeming to probe to 
her very soul, proving its faith. What means had been 
adopted by that determined kinsman of hers, used to 
sweeping aside obstacles, to overcome a lifetime of strict 
conventionality ? 

“Yes?” she encouraged. “You—married him? Tell 
me everything; will you?” 

“You understand ?” The searching look never relaxed. 
“You do understand?” 

The appeal in that passionate regard and question 
brought quick response. 

“Dear,” she replied, pulling her down on the couch by 
the fire, “I understand. You loved each other and acted 
in accordance with—honorable convictions, in extraor¬ 
dinary circumstances. Is that enough? What more can 
I say?” 

Barbara drew a breath of inexpressible relief. Holding 
fast to that sympathetic hand, she recounted with simple 
fervor the whole history. Everything was so fresh still 
in her memory that the unconscious vividness of her 
recital carried her listener away. In the leaping flames 
before them, Margaret Field seemed to see the little hut 
on the desolate shore; the horror of the first days was 
hers, the gradual enthralment of the free life; she joined 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


3i9 


the feast at the natives’ settlement, seeing the figures 
squatting around and—later—the lurid torches and wild 
dancing, while the flames leaped and curled about the 
sacrifice; she saw the sun rise slowly across the sea, its 
rays shining upon two lonely figures uttering their mar¬ 
riage vows. . . And ever, behind all, she felt the vitality 
and charm of the man’s personality, as he swept the 
girl along through all vicissitudes and fears; she realized 
the force of that love, once roused. . . . 

Nothing was omitted up to the present. When her 
voice ceased, there fell a long silence. From somewhere 
in the house came a merry laugh; an opening door let 
out a brief flood of dance music. . . . Then a piece of 
coal dropped into the fender, and Mrs. Field moved. 

“Oh, Bab!” she cried, from her heart, “how you must 
have suffered!” As if incapable of speech, she rose and 
walked to the writing-table. For some moments she 
looked upon the pictured face there . . . then returned 
to the fireplace; where she laid her arms on the mantel¬ 
piece, and bowed her head upon them. . . . Presently 
she looked up, unashamed of the tears still wet upon her 
cheeks. 

“Alan—was very dear to me,” she said brokenly. 
“He was always like a younger brother. So full of life! 
I—I can’t realize-” She broke off. 

This genuine participation in her grief was more prec¬ 
ious to Barbara than any torrent of consoling words. 
“Not many would understand,” she said. “You believe— 
we did right?” 

“You were both people with strong principles. You 
acted conscientiously up to them, as they appeared to 
you in such a position. Therefore, how could you be 
doing wrong? It’s the motive of the heart that counts. 



320 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Some others would have done the same; but—in them— 
it would have been wrong. . . . Bab,” she asked pres¬ 
ently, her quick sympathy seeing all round the question, 
“did poor, dear Hugh understand?” 

She shook her head miserably. “I’m afraid not. He 
was bewildered and—oh! I couldn’t bear making him 
suffer! His face haunts me.” 

“He will get over it in time, dear—he did before, when 
you were lost. His sport and animals mean so much to 
him. He would make a model husband if his wife didn’t 
expect too much. But you, Bab—I used to fear for 

you! I wanted you to go away and see-” She mused 

silently a while. “To marry without real love is simply 
filing a future petition for divorce, nowadays,” she 
remarked. 

Barbara looked up quickly. “It isn’t true—about Tony, 
I mean-?” she suggested diffidently. 

More upset than she cared to show, Mrs. Field rose to 
find her cigarettes. “He swears not—and I believe him. 
But he can’t prove it. He says he spent that night with 
Alan. It was the night before your flight began. Did 
Alan ever speak about it?” 

Barbara took a cigarette, and shook her head. “Never.” 

“Alan’s landlady in Kensington is dead ... it will 
be very difficult. Tony offended Mrs. Scott then, by 
abruptly breaking with her, I understand. Now she is 
trying to get her own freedom and revenge herself on him 
at the same time. Tony became such a fool over pretty 
women during the war! I was so relieved when he 
settled down with Sybil—they suited each other well. 
But,” she sighed, striking a match, “I fear she’s going 
to prove a broken reed.” 

“Won’t she stand by him?” 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


321 


“At present she refuses to see him. He is stationed 
in Ireland just now, and coming on leave after Christmas. 
My flat will be ready then—I am going up. Ah, Bab! 
it’s a mixed-up old world; isn’t it?” She made a brave 
attempt at her usual brightness. 

Barbara threw out her arms wearily. 

“It’s all wrong!” she declared. “Alan called it a har¬ 
mony; but it’s not—it’s lost, swallowed up in discords!” 

“Oh?” exclaimed the other, in some surprise. She 
smiled a little. “Alan was ever a quaint mixture of 
idealism and action.” She looked at the girl’s hopeless 
expression with yearning tenderness. “Don’t be too 
sweeping, my dear. It is broken, perhaps, but not lost. 
Harmony can still be heard in the most unexpected places 
at times; which proves that it is there all the time, to 
be regained when the world desires it. Our own little 
personal bit is the merest fragment, you know. . . . It’s 
always a temptation to lose faith in the whole when we 
lose our bit—to become hard and cynical, or scoff—but 
don’t, Bab, dear! It’s—little; and cheap!” 

“But the keynote is lost,” protested the girl. “The 
heathen with their ignorance and the Christians with their 
knowledge use only—substitutes. And,” she cried in 
bitterness of soul, “I have lost mine, too! What is life 
without love?” 

“But you haven’t lost that!” exclaimed the other 
quickly. “If you had—should I have found two home¬ 
less creatures waiting in my kitchen to-night?” She 
threw away her cigarette and took the girl’s wan face in 
her hands. “Bab, the world is starving for food in many 
places, and starving for love—everywhere! It has, I 
grant, become cold—seeking false gods, jeering at senti¬ 
ment, turning into organized systems what should be 


3 22 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


loving labor. It is full of misunderstanding, greed and 
ill-feeling, which result in wars, internal strife and in¬ 
creasing domestic troubles. So—don’t shut away the 
love you have learned you possess: Give it! Give it all!” 
She passed her hand through the short wavy hair. . . , 
“That’s perhaps what it’s given to some of us for—just 
to pass on,” she added, half to herself. 

As the girl raised her eyes, she read in them all the 
killed hopes of her heart—the awakened yearnings of 
wifehood stifled, the dormant fires of motherhood van¬ 
ished into smoke, the black chasm of loss. . . . The 
poignant suffering in their depths found its echo in the 
elder woman’s breast. 

“Ah, my darling!” she cried. “It is bitter ... I 
know ... I know.” . . . 

That was the first of many talks together during that 
Christmas season, which brought with it such acute 
memories. . . . 

Jenny Grant was disposed of, with her hostess’s usual 
airy quickness of decision, between two puffs at a cigar¬ 
ette. “She can cook. I want her for the flat. The child 
can come, too.” 

Barbara’s own future likewise received attention. The 
impossibility of remaining long in Darbury among its 
little parochial occupations was obvious to this woman 
with her wide vision. 

“All work is important,” she said weightily. “That 
sounds horribly ‘Horney’; doesn’t it? But it would be 
absurd to make a deep-sea diver pick weeds from a 
garden path! You have been among what you and Alan 
picturesquely term ‘deep chords.’ Therefore you will 
be invaluable for deep-sea diving, not weeding! You 
shall come with me later on, Bab.” . . . 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


323 


But Barbara’s soul was at present wandering in outer 
darkness. She was not yet fit to plunge to the bottom 
of the ocean’s mysteries; and Mrs. Field knew that. 

“Everything appears to me so distorted!” she cried 
once. “When I read the papers, and hear of all the 
horrors which have happened since the war, it seems as 
if the world had lost its head and its heart. Under the 
surface, civilized beings are proving themselves no better 
than the savages. There seems no level-headed medium. 
They are either intolerant in their narrowness, or at the 
other extreme, where their outlook is—putrid! It—it 
was awful on the boat.” She clenched her hands, and 
Mrs. Field looked up quickly. 

“What happened there?” 

“Everybody discovered who I was. They watched 
me, and whispered. . . . Most of them took for granted 
—Oh! you know what I mean? Men smiled and some¬ 
times spoke to me—familiarly. . . . Some of the women 
shunned me; others insinuated. . . . One or two prided 
themselves upon being ‘advanced/ I hated them! They 
read loathsome books, and talked horrible stuff about 
every woman bearing children and prostitution being 
legalized. . . . Honor was laughed at; marriage termed 
old-fashioned; men all classed together as sort of ani¬ 
mals. It was monstrous! I left the boat at Marseilles; 
but—I knew what to expect.” 

Mrs. Field gazed into the fire, with puckered brow. 

“You have experienced the two extremes, poor Bab!— 
Those who condemn, and those who condone, all things. 
Each is harmful, in its way; but few know where the 
right dividing-line should come.” 

“It’s monstrous!” the girl cried again. “Women are 
not such—cows; nor men such brutes. I have proved 


3 2 4 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


that. Such people would drag civilization down below 
the level of—Babooma. And they condemn Alan and 
me to that plane!” 

“It’s perhaps a natural instinct, in these early days of 
emancipation, for our own sex to fly to extremes,” mused 
the elder woman. “Like children who are not allowed 
sweets: when they get alone in a tuck-shop, they make 
themselves sick! . . . They are to be pitied for unbal¬ 
anced minds. It’s freedom of mind that really matters. 
Those who have always possessed that—however remote 
or cramped their lives—have not lost their heads since the 
war opened up external freedom to them. They may 
be bewildered and a little uncertain, for a time; but they 
can look around and sift the true from the false. The 
others only have imaginary freedom. They shackle 
themselves afresh with any new craze, especially those 
which give the greatest scope for lower tendencies 
hitherto kept too strictly in check! Therefore, you get 
the modern tendency to make excuses for every weakness: 
the lowest is to be pandered to, instead of proving a 
strength and being thus merged into the highest. . . . 
Bab, please stop me. I’m not fond of sermons!” 

Barbara smiled. “You do me good. I haven’t any¬ 
body to talk to—now.” 

Mrs. Field caught her close and kissed her. . . . 

On the afternoon of Boxing Day, as the girl sat alone, 
Hugh suddenly appeared—a grave-faced Hugh, with the 
bewildered “doggy” look still in his eye. She rose to 
meet him, with some embarrassment. 

“Mrs. Field’s with the old people. She said you were 
alone,” he blundered, in explanation. “Bab—I’ve missed 
you, old thing!” 

This simple directness touched her. She, too, had been 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


325 


conscious of a gap in the surface of her life, among the 
old haunts of their childhood, which had added to her 
wretchedness. Impulsively, she gave him her other hand. 

“I have missed you, too, Hughie !” 

Hugh clearly had something on his mind. 

“I wanted to say,” he blundered on, “—to tell you—I 
was a rotter—that day! Eve been thinking the deuce 
of a lot lately, Bab! And I wanted you just to know— 
you can count on me any time to—back you and Croft 
up, I mean.” . . . 

It was clumsily expressed; but she understood what 
the effort cost him, and the genuine feeling behind it all. 

“I dare say,” he continued hurriedly, “that I don’t 
altogether understand the—position out there, even yet. 
But I—I’ll swear by you both-” 

“Hughie!” Not daring to trust her voice further, 
she pressed his hands, conscious of a surprising sense of 
relief. All her life, Hugh’s opinion had meant much: she 
had missed it sorely. 

Each seemed to find speech difficult. 

“I don’t see,” he began at last, “why our old—friend¬ 
ship shouldn’t continue, just the same, Bab?” 

“Ah!” she cried chokingly, “it is dear of you. I 
need friends—heaven knows!” 

Hugh looked at her diffidently, then away through the 
window, speaking quickly and huskily. “And I wanted 
you to know that if—later on, perhaps—you felt you 

could marry me, after all-” he paused, glancing at 

her, “I shall always be there—just the same.” 

The eves that met his were swimming in sudden tears. 
“My dear!” she cried. “But it can never be now—” 

“You need not say anything, or bother about it,” he 
said simply. 




326 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Impulsively she pressed his hands against her cheek; 
then he drew himself free. Hugh intensely disliked 
scenes. Having said what he wanted, he turned the 
subject. “Mrs. Field told me to have tea with you. She 
said there were loads of muffins! Let’s sit on the hearth¬ 
rug and toast them, as we used to do.” 

So they sat together on the floor toasting muffins, the 
barrier breaking down between them. Hugh recounted 
his doings of the past years; and she found herself able 
to tell him fragments of her own experiences—the birds 
discovered upon the island, the strange fish and uncanny 
things seen in the sea, the natives’ “crows’ nests.” . . . 
And, in the flickering twilight, the face of the man in the 
photograph looked down upon them, as if understanding 
this wraith of an old friendship hovering about the 
room. . . . 

Thus Mrs. Field found them on her return; and a 
certain look of relief crossed her face. . . . 

The days following Christmas were, therefore, a little 
less unbearable: the girl’s intolerable loneliness had been 
lifted. Hugh speedily drifted into his old habit of relying 
upon her companionship. His wish for their renewed 
friendship had been pathetically sincere. As of yore, he 
fetched her to tramp the fields with his dogs and gun. 
She was persuaded to unearth her habit and ride with 
him again, on the mounts he provided; to spend hours 
upon the links. . . . And she did it all more from a sense 
of pleasing him than anything else. 

Mrs. Stockley watched this renewed intercourse with 
secret satisfaction ; but the consumption of tea in Darbury 
again increased rapidly. Words let fall from the vicar’s 
overcharged mind to his sister spread like a swiftly- 
growing heath fire. . . . Something awful must have 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


327 

happened on the island, for Barbara Stockley encour¬ 
aged immorality and was an atheist! Suspicion was now 
red-hot. She was shunned, or looked at askance. . . . 
And yet here she was, with calm audacity “carrying on” 
with Hugh again, giving no other girls a chance. . . . 
What next was Darbury to hear? Feeling quite faint, 
it turned, naturally, to Miss Davies for smelling-salts. 
She did not fail it. 

She held long insinuating conversations with her sister, 
who was reduced to tears over lurid accounts of the talk 
now in progress. The contemplation of an atheistic 
daughter proved far less harrowing. But why should 
Barbara be an atheist? If all people with unrequited 
passions became atheists- 

“Rubbish!” Miss Davies snapped. “With my knowl¬ 
edge of men, do you expect me to believe that ? Stuff!” 

The storm broke unexpectedly. 

It was one of those days when everything goes wrong. 
The village “help” did not come; and Martha therefore 
considered herself too much overworked to complete any 
one job. Lunch was late, the soup tepid, the potatoes 
were hard, coffee was lukewarm. The clogging of the 
well-oiled wheels of this small groove naturally resulted 
in “nerves” on the part of its mistress. These, working 
up gradually, found relief in an explosion, when Barbara 
announced an afternoon’s golf with Hugh. Surely there 
must be work of some sort for her to do in this tragedy of 
an un-“help”-ed household? This led to a heated argu¬ 
ment, which took a sudden deflection down an unex¬ 
pected channel. 

“Of course, if you have renewed your engagement with 
Hugh-” 

“I have not, mother. I never can.” 




328 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“Then your behavior is most uncircumspect! And it 
is causing much talk. To go about as you do with men, 
unchaperoned-” 

“Chaperon? Oh, mother! After—after-” 

“You can’t live here as you did on a desert island.” 

“No, indeed!” 

Her tone held a passionate depth of feeling which 
caused her mother and aunt to exchange quick glances. 

“And why can you never marry Hugh?” the former 
asked testily. “Is it still because of that ridiculous in¬ 
fatuation? Barbara, I insist upon your forgetting such 
nonsense.” 

“You don’t understand, mother. I can never forget.” 

“No,” agreed Mrs. Stockley with some heat; “I do 
not understand; and I think it is time I did!” 

She turned to her sister, as usual, for support, which 
was speedily forthcoming. 

“Barbara,” began that worldly woman, her curiosity 
at last given legitimate rein, “how far did this infatuation 
go? What can you never forget?” 

The girl looked at her, startled, at a momentary loss. 
Her sensitive face, an enemy to subterfuge, flushed 
angrily. 

“Ah!” exclaimed her aunt meaningly, “I thought from 
the first there was something wrong.” 

“Wh-what do you mean, Aunt Mary? There was 
nothing—wrong!” 

“Then why maintain such mystery? Why are you 
afraid to talk of the matter—to tell the truth?” 

A rush of loathing, contempt for all the suspicious 
minds about her, recklessness, which, in impulsive 
natures, has far-reaching effects, swept the girl away. 
After all, what did their feelings matter? What their 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


329 


opinions to the man whose memory she had tried in vain 
to shield from vulgar calumny ? A furious desire to hurl 
a knife into the Darbury “gas-bags” and see them ex¬ 
plode whirled discretion away, like feathers in a rising 
gale. . . . 

She turned and faced the two women, tossing back the 
hair from her brow. 

“ You shall have the truth!” she cried, with suddenly 
blazing eyes. “This ‘infatuation’ you talk about went 
—to the end. He returned my love. We became husband 
and wife.” 

VII 

The silence was awful. A dormant volcano could not 
have seemed more vibrant with foreboding. The two 
women sat, bereft of speech, gazing blankly at the 
girl, who faced them fearlessly from the hearthrug. 
From Mrs. Stockley’s face every vestige of color had 
fled. She looked suddenly old; her features were hag¬ 
gard. 

Then Barbara, as she had done twice before, held out 
her left hand. 

“This,” she said, breathing fast, “is my wedding-ring. 
He was my husband.” 

The tension broke. Mrs. Stockley gasped, and her 
sister gave a snort of contemptuous laughter. 

“ ‘Husband’!” she mocked. “Pray—who was the 
priest? Where was the church? Or—had you a native 
registry office?” 

The sarcasm was to the girl merely as the heat of an 
extra candle to one already enveloped in flames. She 
ignored the speaker, fixing her eyes upon her mother. 

“Do you understand, mother?” 

At that moment the sight of her mother’s deathly face 


330 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


struck, like a blow, upon her heart. Her anger subsided 
as quickly as it had arisen; in its place a huge pity arose, 
making it suddenly imperative that the woman who had 
borne her should be saved the suffering of misconstruc¬ 
tion. 

Impulsively she moved forward, stretching out both 
hands. 

“Mother?” 

Mrs. Stockley rose slowly to her feet, ignoring the 
hands, still staring at her daughter as if she were some 
hideous snake seen in a corner of her comfortable room. 

“You!” she muttered. “You—my daughter—you dare 
to face me with those—lies ?” 

The hands dropped and clenched at her sides. “They 
are not lies! It was impossible to get married according 
to English law. We therefore performed the ceremony 
for ourselves. We took the same vows—it was perfectly 
honorable.” 

Miss Davies broke in with another harsh laugh. 

“Did he actually succeed in stuffing you with all that, 
to cloak your immorality?” 

“Aunt Mary! How dare you-?” 

“Oh! it’s always the same! Haven’t I dealt with hun¬ 
dreds of cases in my Work which have been ‘perfectly 
honorable’? Fools! dupes! You weak women believe 
anything!” 

“You—y-you-” Barbara choked, in her furious 

indignation. 

“Immorality!” Mrs. Stockley caught at the word. “Im¬ 
morality ? In one of our family ? My own daughter— ?” 

“You got off lightly,” broke in her sister, watching the 
girl narrowly, through her lorgnette. “Without paying 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


331 


the price! Most girls are not so fortunate. But I sup¬ 
pose you took good care to prevent-” 

“Yes!” cried her mother almost hysterically, “suppose 
there had been children?” 

“There would have been,” she replied with unnatural 
calm, her eyes burning in an ashen face. “That is why 
I was so ill at Singapore.” 

For a moment both women were again bereft of speech. 
Barbara turned to the fire and stood gazing into its 
depths. 

“Ha!” gasped her aunt, at last. “I always thought 
there was something suspicious in that illness.” 

Then the girl flashed round, contempt ringing in her 
voice. 

“Yes, Aunt Mary, you would! People like you would 
find something suspicious in—an archangel. Oh!” she 
cried passionately, “I know all the disgusting, vulgar 
gossip concerning Alan and myself! I knew it before I 
reached England. Now, I suppose, you will all purr in 
your self-righteousness, thinking how wise you were—” 

“B-Barbara!” spluttered her dumfounded aunt. 

“Oh, yes, you will! But”—turning blazing eyes upon 
Miss Davies’ furious face—“you are all wrong! How can 
you tell what was right and what was not—out there? 
What do you all know of real, fundamental life? What 
experience have you had of—love, temptation—any 
problems—that you should dare —dare to judge? You 
all carry out your religious observances to the letter—but 
what about the spirit of it all ?” 

The two women were staggered by her furious flow of 
words. 

“Barbara!” blustered her aunt, “y-your impertinence— 


your- 



S3 2 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


The girl turned away, passionately, to her mother. 

“Mother! won’t you—for your own sake—try to view 
this from my standpoint? Try to realize our position— 
to understand-” 

“I understand,” cried Mrs. Stockley, in weak impo¬ 
tent rage, “that you have disgraced our name! Sin can 
not be excused. Whatever the man was—and thank 
heaven he is dead!— you should have shown strength. 
You—you—are nothing but a—wanton!” 

“Mother!” The girl recoiled, as if she had been 
struck, catching at a chair for support. 

Her mother broke into a storm of hysterical weeping. 

“Go!” she cried, between her sobs. “Leave the house! 
I—I—refuse to own you! Go to your friends who— 
condone immorality—who encourage sin. . . . Join 
Jenny Grant-” 

“Mother!” she cried again, with white lips, “you don’t 
realize what you are saying-” 

“I do! I do!—Go!” Weakly she stamped her foot, 
then sank into her chair, burying her face in her hand¬ 
kerchief. 

A wild caricature of a laugh broke from Barbara’s lips. 
She looked at her mother’s shaking form, then at her 
aunt’s rigid figure and hostile countenance. 

“Very well,” she said slowly, “I will go.” ... As if 
dazed, she put up her hand to her head, and gave one look 
round the familiar room. . . . Presently the drawing¬ 
room door dosed, with deliberate quietness, behind her. 

“Darling, you mustn’t be too bitter.” Mrs. Field 
knelt down in the firelight beside the girl’s bed and drew 
her into her arms. “Remember, she is suffering too, Bab! 
Your mother belongs to the old order. Life is very diffi- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


333 


cult nowadays for them. They can't reconcile the present 
views, all the splendid new freedom of individuality, with 
the old narrow orthodoxy.” 

“But the intolerance, the intolerance!” moaned the 
girl. “To call me —that! Wanton. Do you understand? 
Wanton !”—her voice rising hysterically. She would 
have struggled free, but the elder woman held her close. 

“Ah, Bab, Bab! You must forget that. She did not 
mean it.” 

“She did! She did ! That's what I am—in the eyes of 
the world.” 

“Only in the blind eyes. And those afflicted with 
blindness are those who cause themselves the worst suf¬ 
fering. You were splendidly true to yourselves—you 
and Alan. You can always glory in that. When time has 
softened things a little, that will be your greatest joy.” 

This reference, bitter-sweet in all it conjured up, 
nevertheless soothed the girl's lacerated spirit. She clung 
to her friend in silence a while, her mind back among the 
days that were for ever past. 

In her present state, hurled as she had been from a life 
surrounded by passionate love into one composed of 
suspicion, hardness, lack of all attempts at understanding 
or sympathy, it seemed that her very soul had been 
shriveled up. Hatred and cruelty, in all their nakedness, 
had raised the flaming sword which had barred the gates 
of the “earthly paradise.” In subtler, civilized ways, the 
same force had met her at nearly every turn, since she 
arrived in England. Intolerance? That seemed to be 
the keynote everywhere, adding to the unbearable misery 
of those whose lives were already overburdened. 

Barbara's sudden appearance at the flat had brought 
Mrs. Field little surprise. She had heard the rumblings 


334 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


of the storm approaching in Darbury, had seen the lower¬ 
ing clouds; but, with rare insight, she forbore to interfere. 
Some storms, being inevitable, are best left to themselves. 
“Forewarned and forearmed/’ one’s work comes later 
with salvage and reconstruction. Not a whole regiment 
of engineers could pull down the wall encircling Mrs. 
Stockley’s horizon; of that Mrs. Field was certain. In 
time, when the shock, and—above all—the talk, had 
subsided, a few bricks might, with infinite tact, be drawn 
away, allowing an occasional glimpse of wide uplands 
beyond. . . . But that would not be yet. ... In the 
meantime it was the girl’s quivering soul which needed 
infinite delicacy in handling; which wavered, struggled, 
sank gradually lower into the dark wilderness of mor¬ 
bidity, from which those who get lost therein take long 
to discover a way out; and, when they do, find the burrs 
and thorns still sticking to them, never to be quite shaken 
off. 

For to Barbara this drastic action of her mother had 
been as the knock-out blow to one already weak and 
bleeding. The difficulty of piercing her limited under¬ 
standing had always been obvious; but of such intoler¬ 
ance, such cruel, stabbing words, such unusually decisive 
action, the girl had never dreamed. It left her numbed, 
bewildered, shaken in body and mind. ... As she helped 
Mrs. Field in the flat, the clouds seemed to close in 
around her. Tony’s short leave, with his depression, his 
miserable interviews with lawyers, and the dreary out¬ 
look of the case, accentuated the gloom. An unexpected 
visit from Hugh, full of indignant sympathy, yet brought 
the echoes of the explosion ignited by herself in Dar¬ 
bury. . . . 

She accompanied her friend into parts of London 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


335 


hitherto known barely by name: where the sight of 
hideous suffering—of little children torn and crippled; 
men and women doomed to lifelong agony or slow, har¬ 
rowing deaths; of some who, strong and full of vigor in 
the morning, were brought into the hospitals ere night, 
bloody, writhing, their moans echoing along the corridors 
as they were carried from the ambulances—-these things 
turned her sick, filling her with a mental nausea more 
intolerable than the physical. . . . This was—Harmony? 

Mrs. Field had strongly demurred at first. “You are 
not fit to come yet,” she had said. “Wait! You’re too 
sore yourself at present.” 

But the girl had feverishly insisted, struggling against 
the thorns of the wilderness closing around her. 

“I can’t—daren’t—remain idle! Let me come. Show 
me all there is to be seen. Teach me all there is to know. 
Let me try to find some meaning, or I shall go mad!” 

And she saw things which she would only have ex¬ 
pected to find among Babooma’s following. She learned 
of things she had never dreamed of, in this jumble of 
civilization. . . . 

And this was—Harmony? One who had known of it 
all, had yet called it by that name! 

The word echoed now, like a mockery, through all she 
saw and heard. . . . She turned, as so many turn in 
indignation, and blamed the Creator who allowed such 
things to be. If this world had been begun in “heavenly 
harmony,” what substitute did the Composer Himself use 
to tune it to this key of agony? What was this heaven, 
talked about so glibly? Who, the Creator of such dis¬ 
cord? . . . What was God? . . . 

She broke down at last, and turned with feverish crav¬ 
ing toward the big open spaces. . . . 


336 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“I must go away!” she cried. “Right away, by my¬ 
self. I’m down in—in a black pit—I can’t see light 
anywhere.” . . . 

Margaret Field had been through all this herself, years 
ago. No words, she knew, could help. She watched the 
girl closely, but made no attempt to force her. Putting 
back the clock of her own days, she entered the black pit 
with her, understanding her darkness. „ 

“It’s all such waste!” the girl cried in her wretched¬ 
ness. “What might be so beautiful is all turned to hide¬ 
ousness. Wherever there is humanity there is pain and 
misery-” 

“And happiness,” put in the other quietly. “On the 
whole, things are pretty evenly balanced—you will see 
that later. It takes a lot to compose this cosmology we 
call Life. Who can hope to unravel the mystery of 
suffering? There are thousands of poems and platitudes, 
of course, which can be blandly quoted—some very 
beautiful. But most souls, if they are worth much, have, 
some time, to get at grips with it all, themselves, unaided. 
... Go away, Bab, dear, and try ... or, at any rate, 
breathe pure air and look at lovely big things until the 
pit becomes less black. Then come back to me and help 
to tune a little corner to a happier key. . . . That’s all 
we can do,” she added simply. 

Barbara went away. She gave no address. “I want 
to feel cut off from everything and everybody who knows 
me—for a time,” she said, when her friend expostulated. 

Mrs. Field knew this feeling. “But what about the 
De Borceaus? An expedition has gone to search for 
them-” 

She shook her head. “They are dead, too, or we 
should have heard. Even if they are found, what of it? 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


337 


If they have—any news, it—will only be harrowing. 
No! I can’t bear anything more just now. . . . Give me 
a month or six weeks. . . . then I’ll write. . . 

A remote Cornish village, trailing its whitewashed cot¬ 
tages down a precipitous narrow lane bordered by little 
cobbled ditches wherein ducks waddled and talked 
together—winding round a corner between fragrant 
gardens that merged into gray walls of houses and banks 
which, in summer, oozed ferns from every crevice, burst 
forth into fires of purple-red fuchsias and bulged out into 
great clumps of hydrangeas; pausing for breath, while 
the lane dropped to the old inn in the valley below, the 
white and gray cottages straggled along on either side 
the stream gurgling over its stony bed between rolling 
coombs in the valley behind, to the harbor which was 
its goal . . . Such was the retreat in which Barbara 
found herself. Giant headlands guarded the little haven, 
as it wound to join the open sea beyond. The immense 
rollers, knowing no hindrance as they tossed across the 
Atlantic, boomed impatiently against the gray-black cliffs 
which here frustrated them, their seething fury turned 
to sobbing moans of impotence between impassive 
sentinels. 

Brooding sphinx-like over the foaming waters, they 
seemed mutely to rebuke the girl wandering alone in her 
darkness of spirit, buffeted by the gales without, rent by 
those within. 

“What do you seek?—Transient, coming from the 
void, going nobody knews whither—do you dare to wrest 
from us the secrets of the Ages ? Dare to set your puny 
turbulence against that which is immortal?—That which 
knows all, guides a myriad worlds?” 


338 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


Standing in the harbor, she looked up at their tower¬ 
ing immobility, looked out at the limitless expanse of 
sea, drawing a long quivering breath. . . . 

The chance memory of a friend’s rapture had led her 
weary footsteps thither—to a small gray house near the 
river, kept by a bright young woman and her true-hearted 
husband. 

Here, unknown and unnoticed, away from the stings 
of malicious tongues, the inquisitive world—not even 
seeing a newspaper—she wrestled with the questions and 
doubts and miseries of her heart. 

All the accumulated littlenesses of Darbury—piled now 
into one heap of uncharitableness; all the poisonous talk 
and inferences on board ship; all the outrages in a world 
supposed to have been purged by the war, to have ac¬ 
quired the true spirit of brotherhood and understanding; 
all the unconscionable savagery underlying the veneer of 
civilization—which had struck so forcibly one returning 
from a desert land, causing her hasty conclusion of its 
advancement being but little, in essentials, upon the pre¬ 
historic state of those she had left—all these things, and 
much more, together with the ever-present agony of her 
own loss, she faced now, searching vainly for some guid¬ 
ing thread in what seemed all chaos. 

She was no coward. She had not abandoned a life the 
naked reality of which was so full of horror. No idea of 
ending her own desolate existence entered her mind, 
when she leaned above the frowning cliffs. She only 
knew, as Mrs. Field knew, too, that until she could see 
sufficient light by which to climb up the ragged sides of 
her dark pit, she could play no part in tuning a little 
corner of this discordant jangle. 

In moments of satisfaction one may exclaim confi- 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


339 


dently: “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of 
my soul!” But, to one tossed at the mercy of circum¬ 
stance, who had seen others ground under the same cruel 
heel, the first phrase especially seemed a dreary delusion. 
Perhaps of some it could be said, especially of those whose 
own ignorance, or folly, narrowness, or pride brought 
about their inevitable misery. . . . Her thoughts turned 
to Mr. Horne with his pathetic zeal, to Tony and Sybil 
and the breach between them. This was, she supposed, 
typical of many marriages. Two people, substituting at¬ 
traction for love—unaware of the magnitude of that 
much-abused word—lightly fetter themselves with those 
bonds. And the pretty ribbon mistaken for everlasting 
cord breaks, when strain is felt. The ribbons used are 
many and varied—wealth, position, ambition, the craving 
for novelty: what are they but gossamer threads ? of what 
use when storms threaten, or earthquakes shake the 
ground? When the dreariness of the Divorce Court is 
reached, do innocent as well as guilty pause and ask if, 
at the beginning, they themselves did right in binding 
those threads around them? If their conscience is clear, 
God alone can help them among their ruins. But if not, 
let the innocent pause in their judgment and ask whether, 
had the storm of temptation come their way instead, 
their own gossamer ribbons would have withstood it. 

Barbara trembled at these thoughts, knowing the 
precipice upon which she had stood in the past with 
Hugh. In good faith she would have stepped blindly 
over the edge, only ribbons in her hand. . . . She had 
been saved from making, with the cruel ease of which 
Alan had spoken, that irreparable mistake. But what of 
those who, in all sincerity, are allowed thus blindly to 
wreck their lives? 


340 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


In the old days at home Barbara had heard crowds of 
platitudes concerning the meaning or benefit of suffering; 
but none of them had conveyed much to her. She was 
not able, in the complacent orthodoxy of thought, in the 
smug little ideas set forth from Darbury’s pulpit, to find 
God. Every soul must make that supreme discovery for 
itself, and the aids must necessarily vary. Away in a 
desert, with only love for guide, she had drawn near to 
Him. Now, in the midst of darkness, she had to find 
Him again. 

To her, of late, the world had resembled some merciless 
monster, seeking, with its manifold claws and mouths, 
to clutch and devour. One step away from the usual 
path, and convention’s iron claw would seize the stumb¬ 
ling wayfarer and dash him out, in its Pharisaical way. 
One mistake in the struggle for existence, and the mouth 
of ruin would close upon its victim. One word of slander, 
and the red-hot monster Scandal would fly, like a fiery 
meteor, over the civilized world, leaving a scorching trail 
behind. 

She left the world of man and turned to the world “as 
God had made it.” Having found Him among the 
sublime in nature, she stretched her groping hands to it 
again, with the sure instincts of one to whom it has 
become in very truth a mother. Watching the great 
waves dashing into spray, and listening to the booming 
of the surf, old scenes rose vividly before her. And as 
they grew clearer, the new tangle of pain and bewilder¬ 
ment lessened. Slowly, with the improvement of her 
health, her nerves grew calmer; and the grand infinity of 
sea and cliffs insensibly affected her mind. Some natures 
feel crushed, overpowered by vast heights or limitless 
space. Others expand under their influence. Barbara 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


34i 


belonged to this last fraternity. Invisible hands seemed 
to draw out, once more, all the shriveled strings of her 
heart. With the sea breezes without, other winds stirred 
again in her soul. 

Very gradually the remembrance of her past happiness 
combined with nature’s untamed moods to bring to her 
a fragment of peace. It was the tired peace of one who 
realizes human inability to unravel the secrets of a suffer¬ 
ing universe; who feels his own smallness amid the 
towering impregnability of those invisible mountains 
which surely guard the world. 

What had Alan said? “The whole world is composed 
of little notes and their reverberations.” 

Reverberations! 

Is that why some hearts are given a happiness un¬ 
dreamed of by toiling thousands? Not to be kept merely 
for a personal possession; but to “reverberate” all around. 
But that hidden reality must necessarily be reached along 
a dark path. Only by traveling through a tunnel is one 
made aware of the light before and after, or cognizant of 
the darkness. 

As she reached out to the old happiness, the wall of 
hardness crumbled. Over the gulf her Beloved reached 
back to her, in all his radiant vitality. 

She remembered words of his, when the ghostly hand 
of approaching disaster lay upon each: “If it ceased, it 
would never be really lost. Each event that happens is 
one more added to our store of beautiful things.” It had 
seemed an idealistic thought at the time, which she had 
forgotten. Now, with sudden force, it returned. She 
realized, with a stab of pathetic joy, that, wherever she 
went, whatever horrors she penetrated, the glorious past 
would go with her. Love would still be there: it did not 


342 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


die! It might seem dead in her own life and in the 
world round her; but it was not so. 

And, having been granted this greatest of keynotes, 
in a passionate perfection known to few, who was she, 
ingrate, to shut it up within herself? More words of 
Alan’s came back to her mind, concerning his cousin: 
“She never lost it; she passed it on to others.” . . . 

Thus it was his spirit which seemed gradually, with the 
sea and hills, to soothe her; so that, at last, she wrote to 
Mrs. Field, asking for news. . . , 

It was after a stormy night, two days later, that she 
walked far along the cliffs, buffeted by wind and often 
stung by spray. This wild weather, like everything fine 
in nature, laid a calming hand upon her heart, as she 
opposed to it her bodily strength. She had tea at a farm; 
then walked back in the early dusk, lost in thought. What 
might not Mrs. Field’s answer contain? What fresh 
horrors discovered, or borne, by those two gallant 
Frenchmen? What news of the world of her own ac¬ 
tivities? What suggestions now for work and action in 
the Arena ? 

Well—the riddle was still unsolved; but she would not 
shirk. She would gird on her armor, and, with the past 
to help, take her place by that other who, with smiling 
eyes yet her own knowledge of bitterness, played her 
part so well: “As one in suffering all, that suffers 
nothing.” 

“If the joy of your own personal love is withdrawn,” 
the other woman had said, one day in London, “the seed 
is never lost. You may think it is for a time; but, later, 
it shoots up, nourished by experience, growing into a 
strong plant which will develop into a flowering tree of 
many branches.” The truth of that, too, was dimly in 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


343 


her mind as she watched the stars come out above the 
harbor—in her heart the tired peace of one who, giving 
up tilting at windmills he can never conquer, lays his 
hand upon the plow which needs it. If solving the 
mystery of suffering could never be accomplished; if her 
own personal keynote to happiness were lost; then con¬ 
tent she must be to hold out the hand of fellowship to 
those companions in bitter waters—to help find it for the 
world starving for love. . . . Perhaps—who knows?— 
that is the answer to the riddle. 

As darkness fell, she turned down the path over the 
rocks; crossed the little bridge spanning the river; and 
made her way to the gray house, from which cheerful 
lights beckoned. . . . 

She fumbled with the handle, turned it; opened the 
door; then stood for a moment, blinking confusedly: for 
something big and dark had loomed up in the small 
passage, hiding the hanging lamp. . . . 

A great cry burst suddenly from the girl’s lips. ... In 
the dark she turned ashy white; swayed; clutched vainly 
at the door-post; and would have fallen, had she not been 
caught by arms that held her so strongly that they stopped 
her breath. . . . 

Alan stood on the threshold. 

VIII 

It was only a small sitting-room, with an oil lamp and 
a crackling fire. But all the worlds and all the heavens 
were enclosed within its walls to the two who clung 
together in their rapture. 

Wonderingly, almost reverently, the girl passed her 
hands over the arms that clasped her—touching the dark 
hair and bronzed cheek half-fearfully, scarcely believing 


344 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


in their reality, looking upon him with bewildered, dark¬ 
ened eyes almost afraid to trust their own sight. The tall 
broad-shouldered figure had lost not an inch of its up¬ 
rightness, nor had the head lost its old dominant poise. 
The few extra lines round the smiling lips and glowing 
eyes were swept up into the radiance which seemed to 
envelop him. Yet, in the dark clothes of civilization, he 
appeared subtly strange to the half-clad, barefooted over- 
lord of savages of other days. 

“Yes,” he said at last, catching the hand lightly wan¬ 
dering over his arm. “It’s all real. Solid flesh—no 
ghost!” 

He raised her chin in the old possessive way, and looked 
long into the thin face and dark-ringed eyes, which told 
their own tale of suffering endured; then he pressed her 
head to his breast and held her close again in silence, as 
if defying any fate to separate them now. . . . 

“But,” she stammered faintly at last, “how is it—why 
—I don’t understand—*—?” 

“Why I’m not sleeping with my fathers, as you all 
surmised? Well—-that is your fault.” 

“Mine?” 

He nodded. “When Babooma was about to send me 
to my gods, you conveniently sent him, instead, to the 
shades of Valhalla—that last bullet, you know!” 

Her eyes opened wide, and she caught her breath. 

“I —killed him? I—killed Babooma—a man-?” 

Swiftly he closed her lips with his own, with quick per¬ 
ception of the effects which renewed civilization might 
have had upon the primitive instincts aroused on the 
island. 

“I owe my very life to you, wife of my heart,” he 
whispered. 




SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


345 


But his reflections were misplaced. 

“Thank God!” she cried unexpectedly. “I would still 
kill anybody—any day—who attempted to hurt you.” 

“‘Nom de Dieu!’” he echoed the Frenchmen. “Our 
life will be a checkered career.” 

Then Barbara fully recognized once more the old Alan 
of flesh and blood, deep moods and light banter, poetic 
idealism and prompt action—deliciously human, warm 
with love and life. She suddenly laughed, the bewildered 
sense of shock falling from her—the first real spontaneous 
laugh of many weeks. 

“Alan! Alan! Nothing matters but the fact that you 
are here—alive! But I can't understand it all. How 
was such a mistake made?” 

“Very easily. Because De Borceau didn’t, of course, 
know friend from foe! Things were going all right with 
us. But when one of the devils set fire to the hut, and 
the friendly spear knocked me out, De Borceau naturally 
thought all was up. Some of Babooma’s lot tried to 
reach you; but Roowa frustrated them. Then De Bor¬ 
ceau was staunch to his oath. He fought anybody who 
came near you, like a medieval knight, and carried you 
off to safety. Poor Roowa thought he had stolen you 
from me, and nearly went mad!” He laughed reminis¬ 
cently. 

“But you? what happened to you? The expedition 
searched the island. And what became of the De Bor- 
ceaus when they returned-?” 

He sank into the big armchair, still clasping her in 
his arms. “It’s quite a fairy story. You remember the 
wood in the east—where, that first Christmas Day->?” 

“Every leaf!” she breathed. 

He smiled into her eyes. . . . 


346 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“But not every moss-covered rock. In that wood was 
a very cleverly concealed entrance to a subterranean 
passage leading to a kind of vault. This narrowed down 
into another small outlet—quite impassable—on the shore, 
which allowed a little fresh air and glimmers of light. 
This cave was tabu. In happier days, when the tribe was 
sufficiently self-supporting to—provide its own meat, the 
condemned dinner was—well, we need not go into details 1 
But that cave was supposed to be haunted with the spirits 
of past feasts. Nobody liked to speak of it, or go near it. 
When I was considered dead, our friends, very naturally, 
carried off my bleeding corpse-” 

“Oh, don’t!” cried the girl who had suffered so much 
from this well-meaning act. She buried her face on his 
shoulder. . . . 

After a lucid interval, he resumed his narrative. 

“When they realized you had been ‘stolen’ and I was 
still alive, the fear arose that the ‘bird of ill omen’ would 
return and make off with me, too! So, to insure my 
safety—that was the irony of it all—they raised the tabu 
and hid me in the cave. Only Roowa was courageous 
enough to enter with food. I was knocked out for some 
time. When I recovered—Barbara! can you possibly 
imagine my feelings upon discovering that the rescue 
party had come and gone ? I was raving mad! The poor 
beggars had done it for the best and were bewildered. 
Nothing would convince them that the white men were 
my friends. I spent what seemed years of agony, doubt¬ 
ful if any further help would come. My only hope lay in 
you.” 

“In me?” 

“I thought you would persuade De Borceau or some¬ 
body to try again, not rest content-” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


347 


“I wanted to come myself,” she cried. “I implored 
and threatened and— Oh! everybody was so pig-headed! 
But what happened to De Borceau ?” 

“As soon as the 'plane’s arrival was known, the whole 
tribe raced pell-mell to the shore and burnt it to cinders. 
I found the brothers hiding for their life in the forest.” 
He gave an irrepressible bubble of laughter. “They— 
literally—fell from the trees upon my neck! We have 
been kissing each other's hands or faces ever since. So, 
again, nothing remained but to wait and hope. I thought 
at least a missionary party would turn up. That second 
expedition was infernally slow!” 

He laid his cheek impulsively down upon hers. “But 
De Borceau could give me news of you. He told me 
everything—about Singapore-” 

Her lips turned, trembling a little, to his. 

“And,” she whispered, “‘It'?” 

“And ‘It/ ” His arms tightened. “And—other 
things. I insisted. He acted loyally—for us both, 
Barbara. But—by heaven!—it made my gorge rise to 

know what you were facing—the inferences, the-And 

there I was, powerless as a stranded infant to help 
you.” 

“It was—hell!” she murmured briefly. “Have you 
heard-?” 

“Madge told me everything. She got the news of our 
rescue almost directly after you left London! I came 
home like the very devil—by sea, air, and land—to find 
you had disappeared—gone to break your little heart 
alone, where I couldn’t find you-” 

“I had to come away, Alan. I was in a turmoil-” 

“My Barbara, don’t I understand!” 

Suddenly his eyes blazed in their old way; and he 




348 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


dashed an arm down upon the table, causing the flame of 
the lamp to jump. 

“Those blighted Pharisees! Those damned, gossip¬ 
ing-” 

“Oh, my dear!” She laughed again at this familiar 
vehemence. 

“I went to Darbury,” he explained briefly. 

Her laughter fled. “You went to Darbury, Alan?” 
She glanced apprehensively into his grim face. “What— 
what happened?” 

He remained silent for a moment; then met her eyes 
with a smile. 

“Well . . . No deaths occurred.” 

“Did—did mother—say-?” 

“There was a very free, candid interchange of opinion! 

I honestly tried to reconcile your mother; but”- he 

gave one of his old careless shrugs—“she considers her¬ 
self disgraced, and talks darkly of being obliged to leave 
Darbury. ... I saw Rochdale, too-” 

Barbara raised her head again. “Ah! dear old Hugh! 
He has been—splendid, Alan. His friendship—his 
struggle to—to—believe ” Her voice quavered. 

“I know. And he, of everybody concerned, might 
with justness have condemned——” 

They fell silent a while, each knowing, by their own 
joy, what it all meant to the friend who had lost. . . . 
Then other remembrances returned of the world outside 
these four walls. 

“Tony?” she asked, of a sudden. “What is happen¬ 
ing-?” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he replied airily. “I went to 
Ireland to settle Scott—he won’t lift his voice again in a 
hurry—and brought Tony home for a few days’ leave.” 







SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


349 


A realization of what this return would mean to Mrs, 
Field combined with her own overwhelming joy to draw 
from the very depths of her heart a voiceless prayer of 
thanksgiving. In the luminous, darkened eyes that met 
her own, she saw the same look of almost reverent awe. 
Never had he seemed so gloriously alive, so radiant in 
spirit. Again she raised her hands to feel the features 
she had never thought to see again; then drew the dear 
head, with passionate tenderness, down to her breast, 
and clasped it there. . . . 

To both of them, beneath the superficial lightness of 
talk, this hour equaled in sacredness that of their marriage 
morning in the dawn. But this held in it, also, the half¬ 
fearful joy of a resurrection. The past darkness, with 
the struggle toward the light, had left ineffaceable marks 
upon each soul. . . . 

“Can’t we go back to the island?” she whispered at 
last. 

“Some day.” He raised his head and smiled. “We’ll 
retire there, now and then, and live it all again! But 
our first jaunt is to Australia. I’ve been commissioned 
to rebuild the old ’bus. There’s been an awful lot of 
interviewing and publicity since I got back ten days 


“Only ten days! And you’ve been to Ireland, to 
Darbury-” 

“That’s not all.” 

He looked at her with eyes which held something of 
their old inscrutability. 

“Your relations showed unflattering surprise at what 
they termed my 'constancy’ now we are rescued. Oh, 
lord!” 

“They would!” she cried, with indignation. 




350 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


“The fear that we meant brazenly to defy the English 
law possessed them. They besought me to marry you 
'properly, in a church/ Your aunt particularly insisted 
upon a Protestant church—not a registry office, or 
chapel/’ 

“Just like Aunt Mary!” She laughed rather bitterly. 
“I couldn’t feel—more married,” she added, with the 
quick shy look he loved. 

His gray eyes darkened ; with a little catch of the 
breath his arms tightened. 

“There’s one thing, therefore, which bold bad barons 
must have in their pockets, when they chase their victims 
to Darbury, to prove their good intent.” 

“What is that?” 

“A special licence. I know a parson near here. We 
haven’t met for eight years; but I wired this morning, to 
tell him we should arrive at his church to be married 
to-morrow-” ? 

“My dear whirlwind!” she gasped. 

He bent, with his old violent suddenness, and caught 
her up so close she could scarcely breathe. All the old 
passionate, dominating love, which had so often swept 
her away, poured forth and surrounded her; so that, 
panting and glorying, her individuality, after all its 
lonely travail, once more transfused, transformed, into 
his own. 

“So,” he whispered, “we must have another wedding, 
my Beloved! But it can not be more beautiful—more 
real—than the other in the dawn-” 

With a little sobbing, tremulous,sigh, she clung close. 
. ... “If we had one every year, in every land and 
every tongue,” she murmured whimsically, “they would 
all seem beautiful to me.” 



SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


35i 


The landlady discreetly entered at last to lay the sup¬ 
per. She cast one comprehensive glance at the armchair, 
and her smiling face grew more radiant. 

“We are to be married in the morning,” Alan remarked. 

Cornish people take life calmly. They do not lose their 
heads or forget their duties in any crisis. 

“Yes, sir!” Mrs. Tregutheran agreed brightly. “I’m 
sure I du hope you will both be happy. And—will you 
have eggs tu breakfast, sir—or bacon ?” 

“Both—heaps!” 

They smiled at each other when she left the room. 

“Somebody must feed us,” he observed, passing his 
fingers through her curly hair. “Every little note has 
its niche.” 

Hugh sat long over a lonely breakfast, a few days later. 
The “old people” were away. The London paper, with 
its list of marriages, lay upon the table before him; but he 
stared away absently, through the window, without 
turning the page. . . . 

Presently, with gun and dogs, he stepped out into the 
iaw February air, turning aimlessly down a line. . . . 
An hour later, followed closely by six puzzled brown 
eyes, he walked slowly up the pathway in the little wood 
where—aeons ago—he and Barbara had discussed their 
honeymoon. The gun still rested unused within his arm, 
the cartridges untouched within their bag. . . . 

Underfoot, the fir-needles lay soft and damp, with here 
and there fronds of sodden dead bracken drooping upon 
them. The tall pines swayed a little, whispering their 
everlasting, murmurous song; dropping, sometimes, 
splashes from their wet leaves, like tears, upon the dreari¬ 
ness below. All the world appeared gloomy, dead, sor- 


352 


SINNERS IN HEAVEN 


rowful. It seemed impossible that, soon, the sap would 
run in the tall trees, the young green shoot forth upon 
the hedges, spring—with its fresh myriad life—awake 
with the “singing of birds.” . . . 

The unloaded gun dropped unheeded to the ground. 
. . . The six brown eyes questioned one another wonder- 
ingly; then looked back at the tweed-clad figure lying 
face downward, with head buried in his arms. . . . 

At last Shag, ever the most tender-hearted of friends, 
approached cautiously; sniffed; then gently licked what 
was visible of a much-loved cheek. 

THE END 








































































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